


Swagger Like Us

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: Existential Crisis, F/M, Homophobia, Kyle has no idea what to do after college, M/M, Misogyny, Sexism, awful language, he parties too much, like seriously all the South Park warnings, style is end game, warning for anything typical of a South Park episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-06-11
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There, right under my collar bone, is a hickey the size of my fist. It’s like a mark, like a sign that reads ‘Stan Marsh’s Property’. Except Stan Marsh wants nothing to do with me, at least not the way the mark suggests.</p><p>I didn’t want this. I don’t even know what it means.</p><p>And…</p><p>I hate him.</p><p>For the first time in my life, I honestly hate my best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanna Fuck, Fuck, Fuck This Up

**Author's Note:**

> 11/16/15: I was never planning on posting this here, but ffn is driving me crazy with their inane rules and the "accidents" they have regarding deletion of my old fic. I want a permanent record, darn it. With the exception of chapter 19, all of this was written prior to 2012, and I tried to date the chapters accordingly, but uh. Don't judge me too harshly. I think (hope) my writing has improved vastly since then. Pretty please?

_I want a love, love that won't hit back. Want sex, sex without a catch. Want a face, to trust, to feel, to lust in the heat of Los Angeles. Want to fuck, fuck, fuck this up. Gonna feel, feel, feel you up. Had enough, enough, enough, enough in the heat of Los Angeles. This city's killing me, I want, I want, I want everything. This city’s killing me in the heat of Los Angeles. What has become of me? I want, I want, I want everything._

_-Los Angeles by Sugarcult-_

* * *

Hi. My name’s Kyle Broflovski, and I’ve got vices. But really, who doesn’t? I like girls and booze, or any combination thereof. The only problem with my little habits is that sometimes they get me into trouble.

I guess I should start at the beginning.

I’m at a party. Some rich kid in North Park is throwing it, but fuck if I know his name. I’d been invited by Clyde Donovan, who has an in with pretty much everyone under the age of twenty five in Park County. It might be because he’s a generally chill guy, or it might be because he always brings at least three handles to every party he goes to. My guess is the latter. His uncle owns a liquor store, so he gets the stuff discounted. And he’s not really as chill as he might claim.

Anyway, I’m at this party. My best friend, Stan Marsh is doing keg stands on the lawn. I know, because I peek out the window to check that he’s well away. When I see Clyde and my other best friend, Kenny McCormick, holding his legs up, I know I’m safe.

Let me get this straight right now. Stan’s a good guy. He was the golden child of Park Regional High School. He got a football scholarship to a local university, and he graduated with a three oh GPA in liberal arts a few weeks ago. He’s been working an internship with his dad’s geology department ever since, and I’ve been helping out too, even though I know jack shit about rocks and the cataclysms they sometimes cause. I’m supposed to be the smart one too, but that’s way off topic.

The point is, you would think that with Stan getting me a summer job so I can put off the real world, I’d be a little bit more of a loyal friend.

Getting me a job isn’t the only thing he’s ever done for me either; we’ve been attached at the hip since we were in diapers. There isn’t a thing we don’t know about each other.

Except this.

Yeah, Stan wouldn’t like what I’m doing right now. Or more, what’s being done to me right now. It’s not the kind of thing a loyal best friend does. But you know, everyone is somebody’s secret, and right know, the girl who’s got my dick clasped between her boobs is mine.

Her name’s Wendy Testaburger. She’s got sugar pink lips that look like they’re coated with strawberry frosting, but they taste like cherries. Trust me, I know.

Oh, and her boobs are fucking amazing. I’ve never had a girl try to get me off with her breasts before, but the sensation is soft. I’m as hard as I’ve ever been, which isn’t really saying much. When I’m this drunk, I could get hard at the sight of a pine tree. On the other hand, if I was one more shot over the edge, I wouldn’t be able to get it up at all.

I probably should have had one more shot, because I seriously doubt I could fuck up things any more than I am right now if I’d been at that point. On the other hand, I also probably wouldn’t remember what I’d have done, which would make the crushing guilt I’ll feel when I’m sober that much easier.

Let me explain. Wendy, of the frosting lips and the bodacious breasts, she’s Stan’s ex girlfriend. She’s kind of a fire cracker, but too bitchy to actually be my type. Still, she’s been working at my dad’s law office, so since the beginning of the summer, she’s been making bedroom eyes at me and getting me all hot and bothered. Normally I’d never take advantage of a hot girl being warm for my form when I know a friend has already gone spelunking in her nether regions. But when alcohol is involved, I turn into the biggest dick in the universe. My penis controls what I do, and as a good friend, Stan should understand. I think.

He won’t. But that doesn’t stop me from groaning to Wendy, “Babe, this is great, but could you go faster?”

She’s a keeper. When she realizes her breasts aren’t going to get the friction I need, that mouth of hers wraps around the head of my cock, and-fuck-any guilt I feel goes out the window.

Two hours ago, I was getting ready for the party. I wasn’t thinking I was going to get off, although that’s always the goal. By getting ready, I mean I was sitting on the couch in Wendy’s apartment. She lives there with two girls; Bebe Stevens and Red. Both are mega-sluts. Both have had rather intense meetings with my dick. With Bebe, it was two years of dating in high school and lots of wild sex behind the bleachers during Stan’s football games. With Red, it was one night in the bathroom at some club in Denver. She rode my cock like it was a mechanical bull, and gave me a couple of hand jobs at one time or another to boot. So I guess I kind of saw hooking up with Wendy as the trifecta. But I wasn’t planning on doing it.

Really, I wasn’t. I was just sitting on the couch with Stan and Kenny, drinking a few beers and watching Bebe put on her game face.

“Oh my god, she’s killing the environment all by herself,” I stared at Bebe in horror as she sprayed three quarters of a bottle of hairspray into her frizzy tresses.

“Now we know where global warming came from,” Kenny replied, taking a swig of his beer and keeping his eyes firmly trained on Bebe’s boobs. He wouldn’t fuck her, since he has the same rule I do about muff diving on another man’s turf, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stare like she was some sort of walking porno.

Wendy waltzed out, dressed like she was a contender for VH1’s Charm School, “Guys, is Clyde here yet?”

“Nah,” Stan told her, watching the way her dress rode up over her milky white thighs. They’d dated for three years in high school, and on and off in the elementary years. They’d ‘given’ each other their virginity and all that jazz, but I don’t think they’d actually fucked since winter break freshman year of college. Now that he was home and lonely, Stan was looking to score, and I knew he was watching Wendy like she was easy prey.

When Clyde finally showed up, we had to pile into his minivan, inherited from his dad the shoe salesman, who said it was the safest ride he could get. Mr. Donovan didn’t care that having Clyde be safe was sort of social suicide. Whatever. The point is, we piled into the van, and somehow Wendy ended up on my lap. I could tell she liked it, too, because even while we were just a little buzzed she kept grinding her bits against mine. She practically left a wet spot through her panties on my jeans. She tried to pull my hand onto her thigh, but Stan was sitting right next to me with Bebe on his lap. He had a face full of frizz, and wouldn’t have noticed, but at the time I was nowhere near intoxicated to screw a lifelong friendship over for pussy. Even one as wet as Wendy’s.

After four rounds of tequila shots upon first entering the party, Stan and I ended up in a kickass game of beer pong. And another, and another, which we were dominating. We beat the North Park douches we were playing against, and were then pitted against Wendy and Bebe. I don’t know how much you know about beer pong, but this kid’s house rules were that if you landed a ball down a girl’s cleavage, it was game over.

I, having been a basketball player extraordinaire, landed the shot. It was difficult, too, what with Wendy and Bebe flashing us their bras and wiggling their butts to distract us. Right after, Stan was dragged outside by Kenny and Clyde, and a couple of North Park freaks who’d been funneling in the corner made me surrender the table. Wendy and Bebe decided it was an ideal time to do car bombs. I had five.

Bebe passed out on the kitchen floor.

“She’s fine,” Wendy smiled sloppily, licking her lips, “Want to go somewhere more…”

She was trying to say private, but it came out as some nonsense word. Against my better judgment, I nodded. She was off like a prom dress.

The main bedroom was occupied by what looked like a threesome, but we found some room papered in rocket ships and planets that was probably property of a twelve year old. Wendy danced inside, pulling me hard behind her.

“You like me, don’t you?” she asked, her light blue eyes dancing with mischief.

“Um, yeah, I guess,” I muttered, when frankly I would have liked a dog in a birthday hat at that point.

“I like you too,” she trailed a finger down my chest, stopping at my pants. With a grin, she kissed me, pressing her lips against mine with so much force that our teeth knocked together. Her fingers fumbled with the button of my pants, and she pushed me against the bed. The back of my knees hit against it, and I sat down instinctively, splaying out against the football sheets. She yanked my jeans down around my ankles so hard I might have gotten denim burn. My shirt followed suit. The slinky black dress she’d been wearing fell the to the floor, and I found myself faced with a half naked girl wearing nothing but lacy La Perla unmentionables that happened to be completely see through. Yeah, I was sprung.

She poked my dick with a manicured finger, saying, “Frisky now?”

With a guttural noise, I grabbed her wrist, pulling her on top of me. That was ten minutes ago.

Which brings me to now. My cock in her mouth, the memory of it clutched between her breasts; the friction unbearable.

“I want you to fuck me,” she mumbles against the head of my dick, even though we both know that there’s no way we’re sober and coordinated enough to have sex. She’s going to make me cum, and not get anything herself, and I’m enough of a jackass that I’m okay with that.

It’s right about when I’m seeing stars that the door creaks open. The light flicks on. Wendy’s mouth leaves, just for a second and I cry, “No!”

Right as I cum all over Wendy’s face. Her high cheekbones are splattered with my seed as she turns to see the intruder. A look of total horror crosses her face, and mine too. My stomach is warm and sticky from whatever splashed back onto me. It coats my navel, my chest.

And Stan’s standing right there, to witness it all. 


	2. Feels Like I'm Going Insane, Yeah

_No more gas, in the red, can’t even get it started. Nothing heard, nothing said, can’t even speak about it. On my life, on my head, don’t wanna think about it. Feels like I’m going insane, yeah. It’s a thief in the night to come and grab you. It can creep up inside you and consume you. A disease of the mind, it can control you. It’s too close for comfort. Put on your pretty lies, you’re in the city of wonder. Ain’t gon’ play it nice, watch out you might just go under. Better think twice, your train of thought will be altered, so if you must falter be wise._

_-Disturbia by Rihanna-_

* * *

 

“Oh my fucking god!” Stan yelps, jumping back a foot or so. I don’t know if it’s because he’s shocked at my cumshot audition for a bukkake film, or if it’s because he’s frightened by the way Wendy’s bush is emerging haywire out of the thin panty strip that is her thong. Her ass is still sticking up in the air like some kind of schnauzer. I almost expect her to wag it a few times, just like a dog.

“Stan!” Wendy exclaims, gulping down what semen she caught like a pro.

“Um, dude,” I mumble, feeling my cheeks heat. My dick is still hanging out of my boxers, half hard. I sit up, as composed as I can be at the moment, and tuck it back inside. I grab for my shirt, and by the time I’ve got it back on, Stan’s gone. Shit.

“Uh,” I say to no one in particular, scrambling for my jeans.

“Kyle,” Wendy looks up at me, her face washed with moonlight and cum, looking completely heartbroken.

“Uh,” I reiterate, “Okay, Wendy. Um. Thanks, babe. That was stellar. I- I’ve got to go.”

“Kyle!” she yells after me, but I’m already off and running. If she expected me to stay and cuddle, she’s seriously delusional.

I stagger drunken down the hallway of the house, stumbling past a few losers passed out against the wall. The party downstairs sounds like it’s still going strong. It’s not like I need another drink, but eh, I need one. I don’t know how to deal with my super best friend sober. God forbid.

Before I even reach the living room, I’m conned into funneling a beer by some North Park kids dressed all in black. It doesn’t help that following the act, my vision goes blurred. Now everyone and their brother looks like Stan.

It’s a miracle that I manage to find Kenny still out on the lawn. He has to catch me in his skinny arms before I collapse in a puddle of beer leaked from the keg.

“Whoa,” he smiles down at me; his crooked teeth making him look handsome as opposed to his real life job as a redneck poor ass hick.

“Kenny,” I cry, wrapping my arms around him, He’s so thin I could probably do it twice.

Like Stan, Kenny’s been one of my friends since birth. Unlike Stan, I didn’t start considering Kenny a close friend until around sixth grade, when sex moved to the top of my priority list. He’s the top sexpert in all of Park County, and I went to him for advice frequently in my younger years.

“Broflovski,” he grins, “Well trashed, I see.”

“Yeah,” I moan, “and well fucked too.”

Kenny gives me a quizzical look, “Since when is that a bad thing?”

“Since Stan walked in on Wendy giving me head.”

“Oh. I can see how that would suck balls,” Kenny frowns, “That wasn’t kosher, Jew Boy.”

“I know!” I exclaim in a drunken haze, “What do I do?”

“Find Stan. Apologize,” Kenny looks thoughtful, “Bros before hos, dude. Although I guess he can break the rule now that you have.”

“You aren’t helpful.”

Kenny shrugs, “I’m going to go do jaeger bombs with Craig.”

Some friend he is. I stare helplessly out in the night, wondering where exactly Stan could have disappeared to. Last time he freaked at a party, I found him in the bathtub nursing a bottle of Jim Beam, but I think he’s a little too plastered to play the nobody-loves-me-let-me-drown-my-sorrow-in-drink game. And I’m too gone to help him out of a bathtub like the one in this North Park kid’s parents’ room, so let’s hope he hasn’t gone there.

I’m about to resume my staggering search back inside the house when I hear retching noises at the end of the long hidden driveway. Always one to jump at the chance to mock poor bastards, and sort of suppressing a niggling urge to maybe, you know, help, I clumsily make my way towards the noise.

The drinking gods must be on my side today. I’ve found Stan.

Yeah, he’s a little worse off than I thought.

“Aw, sick,” I jump back before he can puke on my feet, but some of it still splatters on my jeans. God damnit. I just bought these.

Stan’s lying in a puddle of his own bodily fluid, looking close to passing out.

“Um. Hey,” I nudge him with a sneaker, “Man, are you okay? You look kind of green.”

 My only answer is him coughing and spluttering.

 “Dude. Seriously, are you alright? Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

“No,” he groans, clutching his stomach, “Hate hospitals.”

“Yeah. I know that,” I sigh. Hospitals make him puke. But since he’s already hurling, it’s kind of a lose-lose situation.

It would be so easy to just leave him in the driveway.

But I just can’t. Even if he’s pissed and pissfaced, and even if I’m a perpetual fuck up, he’s still my best friend. I kneel down, trying to avoid puddling vomit, and help him to his feet. He moans things like ‘no’ and ‘stop’.

“Chill, dude,” I say in a soothing voice, “I’m going to take you home.”

“You’re a jackass,” he says in a voice that sounds like death.

“You sound surprised,” I tell him, leaning most of his weight on my left side. This is so not the best idea I’ve ever had. I barely have enough energy to support my own intoxicated ass, much less his. But it’s better than leaving him in his own sick, possibly to die.

He’s gotten alcohol poisoning twice in the last four years. I don’t want to be the factor that pushes him towards the third time.

“I’m not,” he says, saddened, “Rare that you’re- rare that you’re a jackass to me.”

Ooh. Low blow. He knows I can’t stand it when he uses that emo-pussy-puppy-dog voice, and its worse that he’s so obviously trying to keep himself from emptying his stomach all over me. Like I don’t deserve to be covered in puke.

“Man,” I sigh, helping him out into the road, where Kenny’s old junker car is sitting in a heap half on the sidewalk. He'd followed Clyde here, and now he’s going to end up without a ride home. But since he decided jaeger bombs were more important than my crushing Stan’s whole world, he deserves it. I fish his keys out from behind the front bumper, too drunk to care that spiders are probably skittering over my fingers.

I help Stan into the passenger side of the car, where he gives me a chastening look, “You’re too drunk to drive.”

I shrug, “Barbrady’s not going to give me another DUI after the last time.”

“You faked crying,” he recalls.

“It’s not my fault he’s too stupid to know the difference,” I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, “I’m sorry for what you saw back there.”

He stares at me, analyzing whether my apology is sincere or not.

It’s _me_. Of course it’s sincere. I may subscribe to being a prick, but hurting Stan is never on my agenda.

“Whatever. Wendy’s gotten totally skankified since she joined that sorority in college. She thinks female empowerment means sleeping with every guy in town,” Stan moans, “Hope you didn’t get syphilis.”

I crack a grin. Even though it’s an insult, it’s aimed towards Wendy. Not me. Not really. He forgives me.

“Yeah. One of these days I’ll learn to hold my liquor and keep in it my pants.”

“I hope so,” Stan coughs. He really doesn’t look too good, “But there’s more of a chance that Kenny will be the next pastor at our church.”

I act indignant, “Hey. I’ll have you know I’m an upstanding citizen.”

“When you’re sober,” he counters.

Eh. He’s got me there.

“Same applies to you, asshole.”

He laughs, but the sound comes out gurgled. Mostly because he’s puking on the side of Kenny’s car.

I get Stan home safely, although sneaking him into his parents’ house without waking the Marshes’ is a feat in and of itself. Still, by the time I get home, I think everything is resolved.

I’ve never been so wrong.

I didn’t know it then, but that conversation was the start of everything. And the end of some things too.

Sometimes I wonder if I could go back and change that night, would I?

Probably not. You only live once, and after all, it wasn’t my first, or my last mistake.

Wait till you see what comes next.

             


	3. You're In My Web Now

_And I can hardly get myself out of her bed, for fear of never lying in this bed again. Oh Christ, I'm not that desperate. Oh no. Oh God. I am. How'd I end up here to begin with? I don't know. Why do I start what I can't finish? Oh please, don't barrage me with questions to all those ugly answers. My ego's like my stomach- it keeps shitting what I feed it. But maybe I don't want to finish anything anymore. Maybe I can wait in bed 'til she comes home and whispers, "You're in my web now. I've come to wrap you up tight 'til it's time to bite down."_

_-The Recluse by Cursive-_ **  
**

* * *

 

The afternoon following the blowout party in North Park, I wake up in my boxers with a splitting headache.

Hangovers are a bitch.

Hangovers when your mom is cooking huevos rancheros are catastrophic. I run to the bathroom, emptying my stomach before the door even closes behind me. Maybe it’s the smell of onions and salsa that doesn’t sit right with me, but either way I’m cursing the day mom sprung for those ethnic cooking classes. It’s been her new gig ever since Ike entered high school; some kind of empty nest symptom that I have no desire to understand.

When I finally feel strong enough to stand without falling into a faint, I return to my room. My little brother’s lying on my floor, cuddling with Mr. Binky, the stuffed bear I gave him when he was two, and drooling. Even from my vantage point looming over him, I can see his eyes are crusted with sleep.

I poke Ike with my big toe, “Dude. Get the fuck up. Breakfast.”

“Ngh,” is the kid’s reply. He turns over on the floor, pulling a pillow over his eyes.

I shrug, “Your loss.”

He mumbles something that sounds like, “You got home late. Again.”

It’s an accusation, and I know it.

Ike and I have been tight for a long time. When I left for college, I don’t know who cried more; him or mom. Now that I’m back, he thinks I’ve changed, and I don’t know how to explain to him that, yeah, I have. Not in bad ways, really. Excepting the fact that I discovered a deep love for babes and partying, I’m the same guy I always have been. I’m just freer, somehow, which he can’t understand.

He tries, but he can’t.

He’s taken up sleeping in my room to make sure I come back every night. He’s scared I’ll just up and leave, and I’m not really sure how to reassure him that it’s not going to happen. At least, not yet.

It reminds me of when I was fifteen, and wanted nothing more than to know what it was like to be an adult. Now that I am, I’d rather turn back the clock.

I know Ike looks up to me, and I know that I should do something to help him get me.

Maybe I’ve changed more than I thought, because it seems that I’ve lost the ability to comfort my baby brother. He’s in high school now, and he needs me.

He just needs the me that doesn’t exist anymore.

I resolve to try to help him with his homework this weekend, or take him to a movie, even though it’s just a patch in a hole that can’t really be sewn up.

I make my way downstairs, fully expecting the house to be empty. It’s a Saturday, which my dad considers a work day, and my mom considers the day to do all things involving grocery shopping and manicures.

Getting her nails painted by underage Vietnamese girls is my mother’s vice. Everyone’s allowed at least one.

I’m kind of shocked, to say the least, when I find that mom is not at her weekly appointment getting Call Girl Red lacquer on her claws, but standing in the kitchen, fumbling with a bunch of papers. When she sees me, her eyes light up.

I’m doomed.

My head throbs for emphasis.

“Kyle, I need you to run by your dad’s and drop off this,” my mom frowns at the papers in her hand, “Deposition, or whatever the hell it is. Honestly, if your father’s head wasn’t screwed on, he would have lost it.”

“Yeah,” I snort, “And then Ike and his friends would be using it as a soccer ball or a hacky sack, like they do with everything else dad misplaces.”

I put an emphasis on the word ‘misplace’, because that’s what dad calls it.

We don’t buy his bullshit for a second; we couldn’t even if we wanted to. My entire family is made up of go-getters, which is why I’ve turned out to be such a disappointment. Having no idea what I want to do with my life isn’t my mom’s idea of ambition. Well; I shouldn’t say that. I may not know what I want to do with life, but unlike Mr. Liberal Arts, I have a real degree. Ideally I’m supposed to direct my attention towards law, as in The Law, as in being a lawyer.

I’ll let myself be anally raped by Cartman before I do that, although we’ll see how firm that decision stays when my bank balance starts running low and I can’t stand living with my parents for a minute longer. The itch to escape hasn’t quite set in yet, so I’m managing to be stubborn and avoid taking the LSATs ‘til fall. If my resolve holds, which is a big _if_.

I don’t know what the big deal is. Okay, so I’d make a decent lawyer. I can argue like nobody’s business, and like I said, I’m stubborn as a mule. But do you know what they make you do in law school? Do you know how hard you have to study? Jesus; I spent my entire high school career being a slave to my curriculum.

Life’s too short to hole up in some dark dank study, just so you can go on to defend criminals who probably should get life sentences instead of being pushed back out on the street.

I might not be as good at arguing as I think, however, because every time I say so to mom, she cups my cheek and replies, “Oh Bubbalah. You don’t have to be a criminal defense attorney. You can go into tax law.”

Tax law. The kiss of death.

Fuck if I’d spend my 1L, 2L, and 3L years studying interesting (not) little factoids about no taxation without representation or whatever it is. I don’t know why she expects me to follow in my dad’s footsteps anyway. I’ve never professed having any love for Lady Justice. I may believe in doing what’s right, as long as my dick, alcohol, or killing Cartman isn’t involved, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve manifested some burning passion for lawyering.

Which is not a word, but you know what? You can suck my balls if you have a problem with it.

Sorry, I have a bit of a temper. ‘Bit’ being code for ‘hell of a’. I’m sick of having to defend my life choices to people. I’m twenty three, which in the seventies or prehistoric era, or whenever my parents were around my age meant that yeah, you had to have a direction because choices were limited.

That’s not true anymore, man. I’m a new generation. I can be independent, I can follow my dreams, even if they’re more like fuzzy suggestions of a future I can’t really fathom yet.

Except I really can’t be independent, because I’ve fucking graduated and am back under the iron fist of momzilla, which means full lockdown. Throw away the key, goodbye Kyle Broflovski.

“Sure,” I smile weakly, grabbing a granola bar from the table. I hate granola bars, but I doubt she’s going to let me stick around long enough to chow down some cereal, “I was going to run down to see if Mr. Marsh had some weekend work for me anyway.”

Total.

Lie.

My mom glances at me appraisingly, “I applaud your initiative, Bubhie.”

My only initiative is not to be stuck in the house with her for the rest of the day. Much as I love her, the woman can and will give me an ulcer.

Just as I’m about to leave with dad’s important whatever it is, Ike descends from the stairs, yawning.

“Nice to see you up, sleepy head,” I tell him.

He idly replies, “I’m just grabbing some water, then going back to sleep.”

“You do realize it’s like, two in the afternoon? Mom’s not going to let you go back to bed. That’s not productive.”

Ike rolls his eyes, saying in a disparaging voice, “I don’t need instructions on mom. Now, if I needed instructions on how to be an asshole, I’d come to you.”

Yeah. Definitely taking him to a movie or something.

“Ouch, dude,” I tell him, “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

Ike raises an eyebrow, like, ‘you don’t even want to know’.

I turn tail and flee the house like the SS is on my tail.

I’m a Jew. I can recognize when fleeing is a wiser choice than ending up in the oven.

* * *

 

I drop the papers off with my dad.

Wendy’s there, but she doesn’t seem too upset about last night. She was pretty blitzed.

Sure, she gives me a frosty smile and berates me when the scent of cigarettes follows me into the office; smoking is a nervous habit of mine. She says, “Kyle, don’t you know those things are going to kill you?”

I tell her, “Not if I die of alcohol poisoning first.”

“I think that can be arranged,” she shoots back.

I don’t think it means anything. Do you?

Afterwards, I drop by Kenny’s. Mostly because I decide he might want his car back.     

He comes at me like a bull seeing red. The car may be a pile of shit, but it’s his, and Kenny’s damned possessive.

After about five minutes of yelling, which is the longest his attention span can hold out for, he lets me into his house. His parents are out, which has been the state of affairs for about six years now. Not to say they permanently left, or anything; it’s just rare to see them before the sun goes down.

We get talking about the party, which Kenny declares to be epic.

“One of my top ten,” he nods vigorously, “I hooked up with this girl. Double D’s man. Knockers this big haven’t been seen in Park County for ages.”

“Lucky you,” I laugh, because I’m supposed to. Trading sex stories is like exchanging badges of valor. Whoever has the best one gets to be King, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

“So, I was kind of drunk when you told me about that Wendy thing,” Kenny raises an eyebrow, “Wanna repeat that for the sober judge?”

I tell him what happened, excluding Stan’s puking inside his car. He’ll discover that one soon enough; hopefully when I’m far, far away, safe in my home and unable to hear him scream.

“It was harsh, man. He says he doesn’t feel anything for Wendy, but I can’t help thinking I screwed up. Plus little Miss Ice Queen herself was giving me the look of death.”

“She’ll get over it,” Kenny chuckles, “She’s done worse, and she knows it.”

“Yeah, but have I? Going after Stan’s ex is like…not me.”

“Everyone fucks around when they’re fucked up,” Kenny smiles sympathetically, “Fact of life. Take the most sober person in the world and have ‘em down a handle of Jack. Guarantee you they’ll make some mistakes and live to regret ‘em.”

“I know,” I emphasize the second word, “I just always feel so shitty about it.”

“Another…Fact. Of. Life,” he blows smoke in my face, “Stop acting like high and mighty Saint Kyle and start paying your penance like the normal dudes.”

I raise an eyebrow in query.

He chuckles, “Apologize. Duh.”

“Oh. Well I did that. Still feel guilty.”

“So, do it again. And again and again til he hits you in the face with a brick to shut you up.”

“Good point.”

“I am as wise as I am good looking.”

“Douche.”

He shrugs, “Maybe. Hey, tonight at McVee’s they’ve got two dollar lagers. You in?”

I think about it.

“You know it.”


	4. Shame On Me

_I understand that there are some problems, and I am not too blind to know all the pain you kept inside you even though you might not show. If I can’t apologize for being wrong, then it’s just a shame on me. I’ll be the reason for your pain, and you can put the blame on me._

_-Sorry, Blame It On Me by Akon-_

* * *

Sometimes a night turns into a story. The kind that you end up telling your friends years after it happens, just because you still can’t believe what went down.

Going out with Kenny to McVee’s is one of those nights.

McVee’s is a bar and grill that opened ten years ago, right around the time that whole presidential election disaster with Mayor McDaniels put South Park on the tourist map. The town’s grown slightly since then, but the residents have tried not to let the growth get out of hand. It wouldn’t do if we stopped being a scenic, quiet little mountain town and introduced ourselves to civilization, now would it?

Going to college in the city kind of dimmed my enthusiasm for rustic beauty. What use is it when the nearest McDonald’s is half an hour away?

Anyway, McVee’s is kind of a gem for a town like South Park. It was founded by some famous, hoity-toity chef who thought hamburgers were meant to be mixed with Asian fusion and Caribbean spices. It’s definitely not designed for those with bland palates.

Kenny and I couldn’t care less about the food.

Well, maybe Kenny cares a bit, because he’s a poor fuck and food, or the lack of it, often dictates how he runs his life.

Still, more important than the food is McVee’s nightly happy hour. Somewhere between seven and ten, they serve two dollar lagers, three dollar shots, and a host of sorority girls from the local college in North Park.

“Girls,” Kenny breathes next to me, “Everywhere.”

We’re sitting on the retro teal vinyl barstools, between a couple that seems more interested in trying to tongue each other’s intestines and a group of perky looking Girls-Gone-Wild type college girls. Kenny’s so happy he might just pee his pants.

“Yeah,” I snort, pretty sure he’s sprung a boner just from looking, “It’s like fucking Shangri La. Let’s get a pitcher.”

We order a pitcher of cheap beer and finish it off in record time. Kenny practically pours half of it down my throat. It’s room temperature, and some of it spills down the front of my shirt.

It’s like college all over again.

“Party foul, dude. Don’t tell me you’re wasted already?”

Kenny blinks, “Is that even possible?”

“Yeah, if you’re a pussy with no tolerance,” I sneer back, goading him on. He orders another pitcher, and we make it into a match. Who can drink the most, the fastest, without puking.

Soon half the bar is watching us and we must be ten pitchers in. The room is spinning. I’m not too buzzed to not care about our audience, but all Kenny says is, “Fuck it. Get another one.”

He has no fear. Win or lose, Kenny just doesn’t give whose watching.

He’s been my friend forever. Back in the day he was this little, awkward kid who was scared of crossing the street because he’d been run down one too many times by tractor trailers. Now he’s this tall, gangly, kind of hick-sexy guy (and I say hick-sexy not because I see him that way, but because I’ve heard enough girls gush about him) who has this incredible self-confidence. He’s the only person I know who doesn’t seem to be bothered by what other people think of him.

Part of it is his thing. By thing, I mean the fact that he dies. Often.

Then he pulls a Jesus and comes back from the dead.

Also often.

He’s been to heaven, and he’s been to hell. He’s navigated all the realms, and something about it has just given him this glowing inner light that screams ‘leader’. Stan has the same kind of light, but he was born with it. Kenny’s earned it, every day of his life.

Anyway, I’m currently at that point where I think I’m beating Kenny, but really no one’s winning because we lost track when we ran out of fingers to keep score. I may be intelligent, but drunk math is like spinning your brain through a blender and then waiting for it to stand still again; it takes too fucking long. Why do you think bartenders get such great tips? So I think I’m winning, but the truth is I haven’t got a clue, when I end up with frosty beer down my front.

The frostiness comes from us switching to more expensive beer about half an hour back, when we stopped caring about our bank statements.

At first I think I spilled it on myself. It takes me a minute to process the fact that Kenny just overturned half a pint glass on my chest. I stare at my wet shirt, trying to rouse some anger, but all I end up doing is deciding that the plastered, wet look makes my chest look sexy. I glance around, trying to say ‘That’s right ladies. Come one, come all’ with my eyes.

That’s about the point where I realize why Kenny just played out Niagara Falls With Hops on my clothes. I glance around again, this time using my eyes to relay this message: ‘Sorry ladies. Closed for the night.’

My eyes just landed on Red.

The thing about the girls you spend your whole life growing up with is that they are full of surprises. Sometimes the surprise is that they end up being deeper than you’d originally thought. Sometimes the surprise is that they fill out their clothes a little better than you expected when they were ten and in pigtails. Red’s one of the latter. She used to play Barbie on the playground, but now it looks like her role model is Tila Tequila.

She’s wearing this crimson, green, black, and gold spangled bustier, tight jeans, and a big bangin’ belt buckle of a lightning bolt. She’s got enough eye shadow and liner caked on that she looks sultry to my wasted eyes, and bright orange cock sucking lipstick that kind of resembles a target.

Insert here.

She finished the ensemble off with orange-red cowboy boots. I think Kenny’s mom owns the same outfit, but I don’t fucking care. She looks good enough to eat.

“Dude,” Kenny breathes next to me, although the word is slurred and elongated…like, duuudsh.

“Yeah,” I say back, unable to articulate more under the influence of beer and the fact that my eyes have settled in the valley between Red’s breasts. I don’t think I’m going to be able to form words any time soon.

“Be-yoo-ti-ful,” Kenny mutters, and I know his eyes have landed on the same airstrip mine have.

I think he and I are about to have the jostle race of the century to get to Red’s side when she’s handed a beer by a hand that decidedly isn’t either of ours. Trust me, we have to check to make sure; we’re that drunk.

Unfortunately for us, it looks like Red’s found better company. By better, I mean a tall, skinny blond boy who’s whispering some crap in her ear that I guarantee you has to do with Plato, or Socrates, or some other Greek bitch.

How do I know that?

‘Cause its Tweek, of course.

Back in grade school we all knew Tweek Tweak had more balls than he let on, and the day he banged our high school English teacher he became pretty much a legend. His addictive personality towards coffee switched gears around sixth grade, when he discovered the joys of the ganja. He’s been smoking like a chimney ever since. He used to be this twitchy little thing, but weed mellowed him out well and good. Now he goes off waxing philosophic and seducing girls with his ‘shy’ smile.

Including Miss Teacher, although it looks like Red’s intent on making him forget that one ever occurred.

I swear, he’s gotten more pussy that the rest of us combined, and now he gets her. She is such a fox.

Fucking stoners get all the fun.

Potheads aren’t exactly a rare phenomena in South Park. Tweek and his once posse; Craig Tucker, Token Black, and Clyde Donovan have all been known to hit the marijuana more often than most. It helps their game more than one might think. If getting laid is a competition, then that quartet may well have beat out me and my friends.

“I haven’t seen him since last summer,” I tell Kenny, who nods.

“He was at college. I was hoping he wasn’t coming back.”

“Aw, cry, bitch, cry,” I laugh. The temporary annoyance at losing out on a hot girl has passed. I’m used to getting one upped by Tweek.

Plus, it's Red. Been there, fucked that.

“I don’t need to cry,” Kenny announces, like he’s about to drop the biggest freakin’ chunk of wisdom that this Earth has ever seen, “I need to piss. Like a mother fucking racehorse, dude.”

He jumps off the vinyl stool and starts making his way through the crowd. Problem is, he isn’t heading towards the bathroom.

Floundering for my wallet, I end up closing our tab and tucking my plastic away before I can chase after him.

I weave in and out of the crowd, trying to catch up to the blond. He’s too far ahead, out of my reach. When I yell his name, he can’t hear.

For that moment, I’m alone. Except I’m not, because half the people at McVee’s wave and say hi. They’re friends of my parents, or old friends of mine, or even just people I used to see at the super market before I left for school, fully intent on never coming back.

I feel displaced, like I belong somewhere less normal than this. Like I belong in a bar full of strangers in a town where nobody knows my name, rather than a town full of bars full of people who have known me since I was born. I want to be back at school, doing shots with girls who want nothing more than to get laid and never see me again after. I don’t want to see girls who know me, and who I know I can’t have. In another place, Tweek would be some random guy, and I wouldn’t have faltered at going up and asking Red to join me and my friend. I might have gotten my lights punched out, sure, but I would’ve done it. Being home and knowing people takes all the fun out of everything. I should have stayed in the city, where I’d never get stifled like this.

It’s a drunken moment, and it passes.

I run outside into the brisk summer air, careful to avoid patches of ice that won’t melt well into August.

Kenny’s fucking gone. Like flown the coop.

I stagger out onto the sidewalk, glancing every which way in hopes of maybe spotting him.

All I see are the streetlights, a parking lot full of cars, and stars. And okay, I mean one of the best things about living in South Park is the stars. It looks like someone is holding a black piece of construction paper up against a light bulb and making millions of billions of tiny pin pricks in the paper so that the light shines through. I reach towards them, half convinced I might be able to touch them. My vision is positively swimming.

Wow. Kenny is so not floating around in the sky. I try to ground myself, and begin the search once more.

It’s the shout that gets my attention. It comes from behind McVee’s, and I’m surprised I even hear it over the notes of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ pounding from inside. I rush around the other side of the building, where I find Kenny. With his pants down. A rent-a-cop has his flashlight pointed directly at my friend’s balls, and I have to look away to avoid being scarred for life. Sick, dude. Seriously.

McVee’s is literally the reason that public urination laws were put into place in this town, and now here Kenny is. Pissing like an outlaw.

He’s babbling to the cop some nonsense about his belt breaking, but the urine beginning to puddle near his sneakers kind of reveals his lie. The second he sees me, he gathers up his jeans and yelps, “Run!”

So we do. We manage to escape into the parking lot, finding refuge behind a muscle car that might as well have been junked years ago for the shape it’s in.

Kenny’s stammering that he was so close to busted, but frankly, the rent-a-cop doesn’t even decide to give chase. I think he found Kenny during his cigarette break. Anyway, Kenny finishes taking a whiz on the tires of the freaking muscle car, which probably isn’t a smart move, but the night hasn’t consisted of very many of those so far.

Reason number one that pissing on someone’s car isn’t a bright idea; they might catch you in the act.

It’s the second time tonight that Kenny’s balls are flying free. His blissful sigh of relief when he finishes is interrupted by a shriek. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, asshole?”

“Um,” Kenny glances at me, and then at the owner of the voice. Let me preface this by saying, I try not to discriminate when a girl’s a total dog. I mean beauty comes in all forms, and sometimes sex is better when it’s with ugly chicks. But this girl- and maybe it’s just the sour look on her face, but this girl is like, nine kinds of hideous. At least, that’s what I think at first. Then she steps closer and I see she’s not that bad, but the combination of her expression, her mousy brown hair, and her acne scarred face are still a little too terrifying for me to ever let her near my dick.

Not, of course, that she’d want to go anywhere near my dick, considering she just found one of my best friends taking a leak on her car. I assume it’s her car, anyway, from the look of total fury in her eyes.

I also have to mention her clothes. She’s wearing this skin tight white tank top tunic thing, with little extra cloth or bunching anywhere, and a super form fitting, super short miniskirt. These clothes are very necessary to the story, as will become evident in a few seconds.

So she’s screaming bloody murder, and Kenny’s saying, “Um. Sorry?”

She goes, “Damned right you’re sorry. Get gown down on your fucking knees and clean my tires!”

Okay, so it is her car.

Kenny glances at the mess he’s made, like some kind of puppy and says, “Whoa. Calm down. Let’s evaluate the situ-ation here.”

He kind of slurs, making it a much less impressive sentence than it could have been.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she screams. Abraham, where’s the rent-a-cop when you need him?

So I say, “Hey. Miss, uh…sorry, didn’t catch your name. My friend’s real sorry, see, and um, how about we give you some money so you can get your car washed? There’s some great Mexicans out on the highway who’ll do a bang up job.”

She narrows her eyes at me and says, “Don’t even patronize me, kid.”

Kid? Wow. I haven’t been called that in a while.

Kenny, and I have to give him credit here for being brave, because the girl kind of scared me, despite being all of five foot nothing, says, “Woosah! Come on, everyone, let’s take a breath. Woosah.”

I think she misses the Bad Boys reference, because if anything, she just gets madder than a pit bull. Her eyes narrow even more, and while I don’t think she’s unsafe, she definitely has got some fire in her belly.

“Woosah,” Kenny tries again. I’m about to yank him away, because really, what can this bitch do besides claw our eyes out, when it happens.

I swear I have no idea where it comes from. Her clothes are impossibly tight. It’s not even conceivable. But there it is. The knife glints under the whirling stars, the edge wire thin and dangerous. It’s twirling too, like a mad dervish, but that might just be because I can’t seem to focus. I think that last pitcher was a bad, bad idea. Obviously I’m hallucinating, because this isn’t any normal knife. It has teeth.

“Is that a steak knife?” Kenny, he of no fear and the gift of resurrection, questions.

“I think it is,” I hiss in return, marveling at the shiny blade. It’s about seven inches long, and skeletal; but not so much that she could have hidden it anywhere on her body without cutting herself.

“Where the fuck did it come from?”

“I have no clue, man,” I reply, and the girl apparently doesn’t like our whispered conversation, because she waves the serrated knife in the air threateningly.

“What the hell are you going to do now?” she demands, following that up with a crow of, “Not so tough, are you, jackasses?”

She kind of reminds me of Stan’s big sister at this moment.

“Woosah?” Kenny suggests again, and the girl scowls. She looks like she’s seriously considering lunging at him, so that’s when I grab his arm. We’re running. Again.

The girl, unlike the bar security’s rent-a-cop does give chase. Luckily both Kenny and I are at least a foot taller than her, and our longer legs get us out and into the suburbs long before it occurs to us that we left Kenny’s car at McVee’s.

We collapse in a nondescript front yard, and maybe we’re not really in the ‘burbs, because I can see the lights of Main Street not too far away.

“Dude,” Kenny pants, his legs on top of mine, “That was epic.”

“We could’ve died, man,” I hiccup in reply, “Fucking died.”

“So?”

“So some of us can’t come back, dude! Like, I can’t die now.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause if I did, like, what’s the point? There has to be a fucking point.”

“You lost me,” he says, staring at the stars through his fingers, like he’s trying to capture one between his thumb and forefinger. I’m not the only one who thinks he might be able to touch them, I guess.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” I say emphatically, “I’m supposed to do things!”

“Like what?”

“Like…Like fucking cure cancer, or something.”

“I think you need an MD for that.”

“So I won’t cure cancer. But I have to do something, and I haven’t,” I stress the last word.

“Okay. Why not?”

“You’re drunk. You’re not supposed to be sen-sible,” I stress the last word, “You suck hard.”

“Guess that means I won the contest,” he hollers and hoots in celebration, and I think he might just end up waking up whoever lives in the house behind the yard. It’s near two in the morning, and I don’t think people like getting woken up this late.

“I haven’t done anything,” I think about it, “I don’t know. Why haven’t I done anything yet? Dude, why am I even in South Park right now? I passed up on a job in the city.”

“Yeah, that was pretty stupid,” he shoots back wisely.

“But Stan was here,” I frown, trying to organize my thoughts, and failing, “Whatever. I’m just saying. We could’ve died.”

“And I’m just sayin’…” Kenny trails off, his eyes lighting on a neon sign down the street, “Shit. We could’ve died. We have to commemorate it.”

“Commemorate it? But you always almost die!”

“Not with you,” he answers easily, “Let’s celebrate.”

I stare up at the stars. They’re just so damned bright. Then I glance at Kenny’s eyes, and they’re bright too. Bright and blue.

“’lright. How?”

“Broflovski,” he says, sounding suddenly sober, eyes gleaming, “You and I are going to get tattoos.”

I try to think of all the reasons that this is a bad, bad idea. I come up short. I mean, we almost died. This is officially the night we almost got knifed. Why not get inked? Replace one sharp pointy instrument of death with another? Sounds like a plan to me.

Drunk logic never fails.    


	5. I'm Gonna Make You Lose Control

_Just take a bite, one bite, let me shake up your world. ‘Cause just one night couldn’t be so wrong. I’m gonna make you lose control._

_-Good Girls Go Bad by Cobra Starship-_

* * *

The day following the potential-knifing incident, I get a temporary reprieve from work and my buzzing social life. It’s a blessed Sunday.

I spend the day at home, playing Monopoly with my little brother, which turns out to be the worst idea ever. He ends up owning all the property, and is mid-bargain for my soul when mom marches in and announces that acting like bums will only get us so far in life. I don’t know if she realizes that Ike is so far from being a bum that he might just be the next Donald Trump, and this game is merely training.

“Stanley’s on the phone,” she announces, “Something about an engagement party?”

“Token and Heidi,” I inform her, watching my baby brother’s beady eyes as he scoops up armfuls of fake currency and announces to her simultaneously that he is in fact rich enough to own the entire world.

“Keep dreaming, Bubbalah,” she mutters, patting his head and rolling her eyes. Sometimes she just doesn’t know what to do with a son who happens to be a diabolic child prodigy. Then she turns to me, “Token’s engaged? Is he that little colored boy that almost got lynched in the street that one time?”

“By Cartman’s Neo-Klan? Yeah, that would be him,” I affirm, “And ma, people don’t say colored anymore.”

“Oh, I know. It’s African American,” my mother bristles, waving her red painted nails in the air like she’s performing a dance routine, “Don’t lecture me about politically correct terminology, young man.”

“Black, mom. No one says African American either,” Ike sounds off, “It’s a mouthful.”

I decide this is not a conversation I’m comfortable having and tune out, which is the same course of action I choose when Cartman brings up the subject, although his terminology is a lot less kosher than anything my mom could think up. We all have Stan’s dad and that dumb game show back in elementary school to thank for that one.

I snatch the home phone from my mother’s free hand, wondering why exactly Stan’s resorted to Stone Age technology instead of my super fast, super shiny cell. The question is promptly answered when I say hello and he replies, “Ever think of answering your goddamned phone, dickwad?”

“I do,” I reply indignantly, checking my back pocket for the offending object and finding nothing but fabric. Shit. Left it on my bed again, “When I haven’t lost it…”

“Again, Kyle?” he asks wryly, the venom leaving his voice.

“It’s so hard to keep track of,” I retort, annoyed.

“So I wanted to know what you’re wearing.”

“Uh,” I glance down at myself, “Jeans and a t-shirt. Dude, that’s the gayest question I’ve ever heard.”

“I meant tonight.”

“I take it back. That’s the gayest question I ever heard. Probably my boxers until I slip into bed. Then it’s au natural.”

“That’s wrong on so many levels,” Stan replies, “Your scrawny Jew ass should be covered at all times.”

“Thanks, Cartman. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I deadpan.

“Don’t ever call me the fatass’s name. I’ll probably get put on the FBI watch list.”

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, and it might as well be America’s finest.”

Stan laughs, and then he accuses, “Seriously though. You forgot.”

“Forgot…uh…what?”

“Heidi. Token.”

“Blessed matrimony, yeah, I know…” I’m still not getting the point. Their wedding isn’t set until December.

“Engagement party, bottles of Cristal and Dom,” he hints none too subtly. " _Tonight_?"

“Shit. Was that tonight?” I pause for a second, because mom tramps in and orders me to clean my room, and I wonder if she knows exactly how old I am.

She doesn’t remember much these days; like the fact that I hate eating tomatoes, or that I know to look both ways before crossing the street. I’m not just back to being a teenager in her eyes since coming home; I’m back to being nine, without any rights or liberties she might grant a normal human being.

“Yep,” Stan affirms, and I can hear him stifling a chuckle, “You’re beyond predictable, Broflovski.”

“Shut up. I don’t think I’m going.”

“You have to go. You RSVPed like, three months ago.”

“I was still in college three months ago. I could very well have been intoxicated when I RSVPed. It doesn’t count,” I pout, seeing my peaceful Sunday night go out the window.

I mean, I’m all for a good party, but this isn’t a party kind of party. It’s more like a fancy pants dinner with constricting clothes and food with funny names. I don’t want to put on a suit. The back of my neck itches like crazy, and throbs oh-so-mildly every time I touch it. I can’t imagine a suit collar rubbing up against it will do any good. Plus I’m still a bit hung over, for the second time this weekend. I can’t be expected to socialize under these conditions.

“Kyle,” Stan warns, “In no way is this optional. I’m picking you up at seven. That gives you…three hours to get ready.”

“I hate you so much right now.”

“Suck it up and put on a suit,” is my best friend in the whole wide world’s response.

* * *

Three and a half hours later, I’m in the passenger seat of Stan’s car, wearing a somber, tailored gray suit that my mother picked out for graduation. It hasn’t been dry cleaned yet and still smells of sweat from the four hour long ceremony in the sweltering sun. At least my shirt is clean. I refused the tie she offered because I thought it might hurt my neck, and because ties make me look like a douchebag.

Any other party and I’d get away with a blazer and nice jeans, but Token has to be a gigantic rich prick. Heidi insisted on formal wear in the invitation, which I hope at the very least means low cut dresses with high slits on all the girls.

Stan’s wearing a black suit that looks too good on him to be fair, and Kenny’s dressed in this pale blue thing that I’m almost positive he wore at our high school prom. Then there’s Cartman. He’s decked out in this brown suit that looks like it might be an authentic Nazi replica, except all the swastikas are missing.

Stan informs me that he forced the tub of lard to remove them, and let me tell you, he looks none too happy about it.

Let me backtrack. Meet Eric Cartman. One of my best friends and most hated foes. Foe might not be the right word, actually, but it sounds effing cool. Anyway, Cartman’s kind of a twisted kid. He idolizes Hitler, and he’s a fucking genius when it comes to all things manipulative and hard assed. You would think that hasn’t worked out for him, and really, you’d be right.

Like the rest of us, he still lives with his mom, but unlike the rest of us, the only pussy he sees happens to be an actual cat. Not exactly a success story.

And okay, so he owns a few small countries as a result of that whole world domination ploy he tried when we were fourteen, not to mention majority stock in an amusement park and a chain of restaurants staffed by world famous chefs, but he’s still a racist loser, in my book.

Which kind of makes him an interesting guy to be around.

“That fucking bitch,” Cartman mutters from the back seat, “That filthy whore.”

“Is he still upset about Heidi?” I ask Stan, leaning in close so that my voice won’t be heard back there over Kenny’s impromptu karaoke session to some noxious pop song and Cartman’s insane ranting.

“I think so,” Stan mutters back, “He never really got over that make out fake out deal she pulled on him in eighth grade.”

“Pathetic.”

“Completely,” my friend agrees, nodding in time to Kenny’s song. I’m thankful that at least the blond can sing. If it were Cartman singing, or Moses forbid, me, the windows might shatter or something.

Stan would do okay though. He sings, sometimes, when we’re chilling in our room. Mostly when he’s strumming his old guitar and trying to make me smile. His voice is nice; rough, raw, and some kind of beautiful, which is just about the gayest thing you can ever tell another dude, so let’s keep that quiet.

“Aye! Stupid assholes!” Cartman yells, “I can hear you!”

He reaches over the front of the seat to try to knock me over the head, but all he gets is my elbow in his gut and Stan swerving slightly, yelping, “Guys, no fighting while the car’s in motion!”

It reminds me of high school, to tell the truth. We used to drive around in Stan’s car because Kenny hadn’t bought his beat up junker yet, Cartman was too cheap to buy gas for his, and my mom wouldn’t let me drive until she knew I was mature enough to handle it.

That day still hasn’t come, by the way. I think my mom would like it if I didn’t take up driving until I was thirty. I had to take the test at the DMV while I was away at school, and she still doesn’t know I have a license. I think she’s under the impression that I take my passport to bars with me as a form of ID.

Anyway, we’d drive all over Park County. Sometimes we’d go camping together, with a few six packs of beer that Kenny’s brother scored us. Sometimes we’d just drive until we felt so lost that we’d never make it home.

Things were easier back then.

We pull into Token’s driveway, which is about a mile long. A massive amount of cars are already parked there, and I can hear music pounding out into the street, and it sure doesn’t sound like any string quartet I’ve ever heard. I exchange a look with Stan, who clearly is a little confused.

Knocking on the door gives us no results at all. Kenny, who considers an unlocked door an invitation, even if he’s never met the people who own it, just walks right inside. Now, I don’t know if you’ve been to engagement parties before. I’ve been to one or two with my parents, and I’ve heard we always do them up bigger than they do in say, the Deep South, or the West Coast. Be that as it may, I’m still expecting a long table, set with nice silver and china, and perhaps an endless flow of champagne.

What I get is the inside of some kind of bangin’ night club. Token’s entire front foyer has been draped with dark blue fabric, all the way into the big, fancy dining room. There are a minimum of fifty people kicking around, and waiters in penguin suits serving up all those unpronounceable foods and glasses full of bubbly. The music’s so loud that I can’t even hear myself think. I can’t spot Token or Heidi anywhere.

“I guess,” I hear Stan murmur into my ear, his breath soft and tickling, “Maybe we should…uh…”

“Grab a drink!” Kenny cheers, scooping up three champagne glasses and distributing two to Stan and me.

Cartman, ever impudent and annoying, clamors, “Aye, you forgot mine, you poor piece of shit!”

Kenny rolls his eyes, “This is champagne, Gargantua, not sparkling cider.”

“So? I can drink champagne,” the fat boy whines.

This isn’t strictly true, which Kenny is quick to inform him of, “You swore you’d never drink again after that tequila incident senior year.”

“I drank plenty in college, Kenneh.”

“Um, ‘kay,” Kenny replies, “But if you fucking puke this shit, I will not hesitate to shank you. It costs more than I make in a year.”

“Maybe if you were better in bed, homo, you could raise your rates,” Cartman accepts the glass of champagne, takes a sip, and predictably spits it all over the marble tiled floor.

Kenny glares at him disdainfully, not least because Cartman just implied he’s a prostitute.

The tequila incident was Cartman’s first hangover. He spent an entire day puking his guts out, and hasn’t touched liquor since as far as we know. He likes to pretend he’s tough and claims he drank like a fish in college, but it’s just a front to make us think he’s cool. I don’t know why he’s under the impression that him being some kind of drinking machine will make us think he’s cool; we figured out he’s a giant a-hole back when we all were three.

Plus, not to sound like some kind of public service announcement or anything, but peer pressure is only fun when you don’t end up with alcohol spit all over your leather dress shoes.

“Dude,” I mutter, trying to avoid the sticky champagne, “Not cool.”

Cartman splutters the only comeback he knows, “Fucking kike.”

He then trails away before I can reply, following a waiter with a tray full of glazed desserts; leaving behind a cry of, “Napoleons, sweet!”

Stan shrugs, and, balancing his champagne glass in one arm, weaves through the crowd to find one of the many leather couches set up in the dark nooks and crannies created by the draped fabric. I sit down next to him, leaning into his body slightly as I shift to make myself comfortable.

This suit is killing me.

I was right about the girls, though. They waltz by in dresses that make them look like fucking fairy princesses, if fairy princesses liked to expose too much cleavage. It’s a babe bonanza.

“Whoo weeee, motherfuckers,” Kenny exclaims, his eyes on some chick in a ice blue dress that might as well be transparent, kicking out his feet over our laps, “This is going to be one hell of a night.”

“You,” Stan observes coolly, “Are uncomfortably close to my nuts, dude.”

Kenny shifts his worn converse, which he views as acceptable formal wear even closer, just to be a dick.

I down my champagne and ask, “Do you see Token or Heidi anywhere?”

“Nah, dude,” Stan replies, flagging down a waiter, “They’ll show eventually.”

He must be psychic, because as he speaks, Token and friends appear from thin air. When I say friends, of course, I mean Craig, Clyde, and Tweek.

Oh, and Butters, who Token seems to have taken under his wing sometime within the past few years. They went to the same university, which made them close, or some shit like that.

What to say about Butters? Leopald Stotch used to be a sweet kid. The kind of kid that the rest of us ignored, because he was stupid and naïve, and so sweet that it wasn’t even worth it to make fun of him. Of course, that had been when he was ten years old.

Butters went away to summer camp the summer after fifth grade and came back a changed man. He’d gotten a girlfriend; a feat so shocking that none of us had actually believed he was capable of it. Up until then, Stan, Kenny, Token, and Clyde Donovan had been the only kids in our class to actually go out with girls. The rest of us were all growing into our hormones and itching to do the same.

We felt inferior when Butters beat us to the punch. But having one had made him different; more confident, better able to stand up for himself. He was still an all around nice guy, but he was stronger, somehow.

Now, twelve years later, he’s a solid friend. I haven’t spoken to him much since college, which is the way of things; college has a methodical way of separating you from home. But I can tell being away at school with Token has only made him more confident, and more himself.

Token, meanwhile, is the same guy he’s always been. Smart, chill, a teensy bit arrogant, and a hella lot wealthier than anyone else I know.

Clyde and Craig haven’t changed much either. Craig’s groveling to Clyde like a little bitch over the last mushroom crab concoction on the silver tray that Clyde’s holding ransom, while Clyde’s lording it over Craig as though said mushroom crab concoction is actually the last piece of food in the entire world.

Seconds later, Craig performs a tricky grab that results with him stuffing the crab puff thing in his mouth and Clyde near tears. He's always had a soft spot for food.

“Marsh! Broflovski!” Token cheers, “Where’re your other halves?”

It takes me a second to realize that he’s talking about Kenny and Cartman, and another second to realize that Kenny’s disappeared.

Craig snorts, “Halves? More like three quarters, if you’re counting Cartman.”

“I heard that, Tucker,” the fatass appears from the shadows, which might be creepy if I wasn’t used to years of him sneaking into my room when I was a kid.

Don’t ask.

Just don’t.

“And your point?” Craig tilts his head to the side, waiting to see if Cartman will manage a believable threat. Like I said, he can be scary, but mostly to governments and fully grown adults who have never had to deal with Hitler Junior before. The rest of us are beyond numb to him.

“My point is you better watch your mouth, or someone might close it for you.”

“Gee Eric,” Butters says quietly, “That isn’t very nice.”

For all of Butters's reformations, he still has this soft spot for Cartman that nobody understands. Sure, he’ll stand up for himself if Cartman comes down on him, but mostly he tries to accommodate all the fatass’s anger and snarky comments with gentle grace.

Yeah, Butters might be kegstand champion of our senior graduating class, but he’s still kind of a saint in some ways.

“Who?” Craig shrugs, not even batting an eyelash, “You? You think you can take me, blubber boy?”

Cartman takes a step forward, sputtering words that no one can understand but are laced with venom.

Craig, Token, and Tweek don’t look at all impressed by Cartman’s blustering. The only person who’s ever really been scared of Cartman is Butters, possibly out of kindness.

And maybe Clyde, who’s trembling slightly.

I try to defuse the situation, ignoring Cartman’s cry of ‘mind your own beeswax, you fucking Jew-dog!’ I do this by nodding to Stan, who takes Token by the arm and begins to congratulate him on his impending doom.

I mean marriage.

Meanwhile I take Tweek to the side and ask him to explain some random, trivial fact to me. That leaves Craig, Clyde, and Butters to Cartman. The threesome decides a champagne-baring waiter is more interesting than such a witty and stimulating insult-fest and leave Cartman to babble incoherently at dead space.

After about five seconds of talking to Tweek, I decide I can’t take philosophical stoner chat any longer and say, “Gee, that’s fucking awesome. You’re mad smart. You should go on a game show or something.”

“Dude,” Tweek replies, slow and easy, “I don’t want to be on a game show. It’s like…too much pressure, man.”

Okay. Some things never change.

I laugh and tell him that I have to congratulate Token. Last I checked he was deep in conversation with Stan, but now I see that Cartman has recovered and is regaling him with black penis jokes.

Broflovski saves the day again. I step in, covering Cartman’s mouth and saying, “Hey! Token! How’s it hanging?”

Seconds later I realize that was the worst possible thing to say in light of Cartman’s horrible cock-jokes. I cover by adding, “Not what I meant, dude.”

Token grins and says good-naturedly, “I know, I know.”

He glares at Cartman, who calls him a name better not mentioned in writing, and then turns back to me and Stan.

“Can’t believe you’re getting married,” Stan murmurs; it's something I think he’s probably said about eight times already from the exasperation on Token’s face. He’s trying and failing to distract the future groom from our obese friend.

“I know, it’s crazy,” Token answers in a practiced manner, “Heidi’s been driving me insane with all the arrangements. Flowers and halls and food and I don’t know what else.”

“Dresses?” I guess.

He groans, “Agh! Don’t even get me started on that!”

We do the good friend thing; laughing, talking, drinking, and eating.

Stan wanders off because he spots some guy who used to be on the baseball team with him, leaving me alone in a corner with three full glasses of champagne. I don’t know if you’ve ever been drunk on the stuff before, but it’s a lightheaded kind of high that usually ends with massive headaches and nausea.

Rock on.

Cartman’s disappeared, presumably to find some apple juice in one of the five fridges around the house, and I haven’t seen Kenny since before Token and the other guys come up. It’s been at least two hours. I wonder where he’s got off to, but I’m okay watching girls waltz by and sipping all this champagne.

However, in the tradition of having my peaceful Sunday ruined, my friends decide they can’t leave well enough alone.

Specifically, one blond, blue eyed friend with a penchant for dropping his pants around pretty girls.

Which would be fine, most likely, if he hadn’t decided to drop his pants around one girl.

The bride-to-be.

Let me explain:

Back behind the dining room, there’s a grand spiral staircase that winds up to what I assume are the bedrooms. I rarely visit Token’s house, even back in high school, so I’m not up on the floor plan. Point being that I'm mid-sip on some champagne, when a tumbling down those stairs comes my buddy Kenny.

His head hits so many steps I'm almost sure he's dead, which seems like a mean thing to say, but its Kenny. His dying now wouldn’t be the first time.

The music keeps playing, but all the mindless party chatter stops.

I jump to my feet, knocking over a few glasses and a few waiters with trays during the course of my mad rush to reach his side.

“Kenny!” I gasp, kneeling down beside him. He smiles up at me, missing a tooth and sporting a few blossoming black and blues on his face.

Glaring up to see the perpetrator, I see…Token. Beside him is Heidi, wrapped only in a sheet. I glance back down at Kenny and realize he’s shirtless. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happened.

“Dude, seriously,” I hiss, “Seriously?!”

Kenny does this little shrug thing that says ‘eh, what are you gonna do?’

At this exact moment in time, I’m thinking that my friend is a gigantic prick, and what I’m going to do about it is finish the job Token started and smash his fucking face in.

Instead, I stand up and yell up the stairs, “Token, chill out man.”

“Chill out? Seriously Broflovski? He fucked my fiancée,” Token growls, starting down the steps. Heidi’s doing this little shriek-cry thing that’s really annoying.

“She begged me for it,” Kenny spits, climbing to his feet, “And she came onto me first anyway!”

“Token!” Heidi screams as he lunges the rest of the way down the steps, aiming a punch straight at Kenny’s nose.

Now I don’t know why I do it. I should probably be knighted for it. But I intercept the punch, with my own fucking face, and succeed in saving Kenny’s ass.

Token grabs hold of the front of my shirt, and it rips.

My mom’s so not going to like this.

Anyway, I glare wholeheartedly at Token, even though I know that he has to be seething, and rightfully so. As calm as I can be with my new shiner, I tell him, “We’re going to leave.”

Token stares at me, his eyes narrow and dark. Finally he snarls, “Get him the fuck out of here.”

I have no choice but to oblige.

* * *

 

We find Stan outside, leaning against the side of the house. Or I should say I find Stan out there, because Kenny’s gone off again, possibly to pee on Token’s car. He is such a jerkoff sometimes.

“Dude, have you been out here the whole time?” I demand, throwing my suit jacket onto the grass. It was stifling me, I swear.

Stan glances up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles, “Yeah." Then the smile drops away. "Shit, what happened to your face?”

“Kenny banged the bride,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.

Stan does this groan-sigh thing he’s perfected from years of hanging out with us jackasses, “Is he ever going to learn?”

“Probably not,” I spot the blond in question glancing around the driveway, presumably looking for us, “Kenny!”

He swaggers over to me, walking like he’s king of the world. Kenny throws an arm around my shoulder and cheers, “Yes, my love?”

Stan’s face blanches.

“Dude,” I tell him, “Don’t act like such a ‘phobe. Kenny and I just can’t hide our feelings anymore.”

“That’s right,” Kenny nods vigorously, “I couldn’t suppress my youthful lust for this tight ass any longer.”

He slaps me on the butt with his free hand, and I yelp, a little startled.

“Dude,” I warn, “Too far.”

“Scared the ladies might notice you’re a fag?”

“Could you not use that word?” Stan interjects, still looking a bit pale. I have no clue what his problem is.

“What word?” Kenny inquires, “Fag? Fag, fag, faggot, fag. That bother you, princess?”

“Geez, Kenny. You don’t have to act like such an asshole,” Stan mutters back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Actually, I do,” Kenny’s saying, completely ignoring my concern, “It’s expected behavior.”

Stan’s staring at my black eye again, and by now he notices the bruises on Kenny’s face. Unbeknownst to me, his eyes fall on the red hair matted to the nape of my neck. The collar of my shirt is gaping down because of the ripped front, revealing a covered design in ink at the base of my neck, the size of a thumbprint.

“What’s that?”

“What?” I ask, having no idea that he’s been observing me too closely.

“On your neck,” he reaches out, his fingers wrapping around and gripping my throat. He peels back the bit of gauze I left over it to cushion my skin from the suit jacket. The pad of his thumb brushes rough and dry across my tattoo.

“Oh,” I feel guilty, and I can’t figure out why, “Kenny and I almost died last night. So we, uh, commemorated it.”

“You got a tattoo?” Stan asks.

“Matching tattoos,” Kenny corrects with a wide grin.

Stan looks like he might be sick. Not hangover sick, but fever, nausea, upset stomach ill. I’m starting to worry.

“Dude, are you alright?” I shrug Kenny’s arm away, and place a hand on one of his broad shoulders, “Buddy?”

“He’s fine,” Kenny says, whistling some nameless tune and trying to drag me towards the walkway. He’s spotted a few girls leaving the party, and wants to work his charm.

“Shut the fuck up for a second, dude,” I tell Kenny, and he listens to me for reasons I can’t fathom. My voice isn’t any sharper than Stan’s was before.

“Stan,” I try again, and he glances up at me. His eyes are so goddamned ocean blue, I could drown.

“I’m okay, Kyle. Calm down.”

“Yeah, Jew Boy,” Kenny grins, but he doesn’t actually look very happy, “You look like you might just hyperventilate. God forbid anything happens to the SBF, hunh?”

“SBF?” I demand.

“Super Best Friend?” he suggests, “No? I thought acronyms were all the rage nowadays.”

“You’re such a fag,” I murmur. Stan shrugs off my hand.

“Just…don’t say that,” he says again, “It makes you sound ignorant.”

Well, okay. That sounds like a line that would normally come out of my mouth.

“Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?” his head snaps up, and his eyes are panicked, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Um. Okay,” I attempt to use my most soothing voice, but I mean, I’m kind of wasted, and my lungs are pretty much toast from that pack of lung cancer I shared with Kenny the night before at McVee’s.

“Come on, dude,” Kenny encourages me, his eyes following the girls who are now walking to the next house over, “Looks like there’s a party going on next door. We can crash! Let’s leave Stan right here so he can have a nice little nervous breakdown, and then we can come back and scrape him off the floor when the party’s over.”

I roll my eyes. Good old Kenny. Tact never was his strong suit. Stan’s watching me with slitted eyes, and I’m positive that he will never, ever forgive me if I walk out on him now. It’s like when a girl says _we need to talk_. Stan’s giving me that vibe, and even though I don’t know what exactly he wants to talk about, I know that if I don’t do it, he’s going to give me the silent treatment for weeks to come.

It may be a little gay, but I can’t not talk to Stan for weeks. Even putting aside the very awkward fact that we work stuffed in a tiny, hot office together five days a week, he’s my best friend. If I don’t have him around, I’m pretty sure my sanity will fly out the window.

“Sure. You go get some champagne and chat up the girls, and I’ll be right there. Two seconds,” I promise, and while I can tell that Kenny doesn’t believe me, he saunters off with only a mildly resentful look.

I slide down onto the floor, arranging myself cross legged, which kind of pinches my balls in these slacks. Fuck engagement parties, man. If I ever get hitched, I’m doing everything in the nude.

Stan huddles down beside me, his eyes guarded.

“So. Dude. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he tells me, and it’s a complete and total lie. Stan Marsh may be one of South Park’s golden children, but he’s a total failure at lying. Or, as Cartman likes to put it, my Jew nose is so big that I can sniff out any bullshit he throws.

“It’s going to be one of those nights?” I venture with a small smile, “I know you’ve been acting kind of cold after that whole…Wendy thing, but you know I’m really, really, really sorry, right?”

“I don’t care about Wendy,” Stan mutters, “You act like she’s the only pussy in town I can get.”

I shrug, “If the shoe fits…”

He pushes me, but gently. Then he says, “Acting like a dick when you’re drunk isn’t new, Kyle. Everyone does it. You get a pass for that. You didn’t even have to ask for it.”

“I still feel guilty about it,” I admit, because I do.

Acting like we founded Pussy Raiders R Us is kind of me and my friends’ MO, but that night I crossed a line. Even if I didn’t fuck Wendy, I still feel like I fucked Stan over. And it isn’t because they were or might be or had been together, it was because…well, guy code. Even though it’s an imaginary set of laws that nobody really follows, it’s about trust. Imaginary trust, but I still broke it. And even if everyone forgives me, I’m still a bastard for it. I’m alright feeling like I dicked someone else over, but Stan’s been there for me forever. I mean, he’s seen me fucking cry. Not that I cry often; but like when my other Grandmother died back in Sophomore year. He was at my side every step of the way.

“Look. None of this is about Wendy. It’s about…” he trails off helplessly.

“The tattoos?” I guess, running a hand through my hair self-consciously, because okay, in retrospect, they were kind of a bad idea. Essentially I’ve been branded, and not just that, but branded identically to Kenny. It’s a little gay, to tell the truth.

“There’s that,” he admits, “It’s kind of weird that you didn’t tell me. Even more weird that I wasn’t there in the first place. I’m always there, usually, when you do stupid shit.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, and starts playing with the curly strands of my damp hair. He breathes, “Not to sound like a total pussy, but you didn’t even think to call me?”

“I,” I stutter, lost for words, because no, I didn’t. It might be the first time in the history of man that I excluded Stan from anything, “I- sorry.”

He waves it away, like don’t worry, even though I can tell by the set of his lips that he’s still upset about it, “That’s not the only thing, Kye. Like, how many times a week do we drink?”

“Three or four,” I tick off the days on my fingers, put off by the change of subject, “If we can afford to.”

“Yeah,” Stan sighs, “And maybe that was alright when we were in college, but we’re supposed to be grownups now.”

“I don’t feel like a grownup,” I reply.

“I know. Me neither. I feel twenty three and invincible, and I’m sick of it. I want to live life, for real.”

“I…don’t know what that means, dude.”

“Just this. All you care about is getting drunk, and getting laid. You think you can live this way forever? Wasting your life? Is that really enough?”

“Stan,” my voice breaks a little, because he’s never looked at me the way he is right now, like I’m a total disappointment, “You’re scaring me.”

“Maybe you need to be scared, then. Kyle, I’m not talking about settling down, but I think…I’m sick of parties. I’m sick of acting like immature jerks. I want to see if there’s anything else.”

Else? I mouth the word, and it tastes foreign. It’s not like we spend our whole lives drinking or fucking. I mean, we work forty hours a week. I take my little brother to hockey practice. I eat my mom’s home cooked meals, even though they suck ass. I watch fucking TV, for Chris’sake.

I just don’t get it.

I stare at Stan, and for the first time in my life, I can’t think of a single thing to say. 


	6. Time Isn't Wasted When You're Getting Wasted

_Hold the beer bong, nothing wrong with some fun, even if we did get a little bit too drunk. Time isn’t wasted when you’re getting wasted. Woke up today and all I could say is, um; That party last night was awfully crazy I wish we taped it. I danced my ass off and had this one girl completely naked. Drink my beer and smoke my weed, but my good friends is all I need. Pass out at three, wake up at ten, go out to eat and then do it again. Man, I love college._

_-I Love College by Asher Roth-_

* * *

 

“Dude,” I know I’m making a face, and I can’t stop. I mean, I’m at a loss here. The first party I ever went to, I went to with Stan. He’s the original wild child of our high school senior class. Back then I knew he liked to drink, and fuck, and do all the things I thought were reserved for our college years.

He didn’t include me, and I was okay with that. He was and is my best fucking friend, and I idolized him. Hell, I still kind of idolize him. It’s his fault I’m back in this hick town instead of figuring my shit out, and now he’s the one who wants to stop? The hell?

“Oh shit!” Craig Tucker yells as he stumbles out the front door of Token’s house. We’re still on the lawn, and for a second I think he might report us to the very unhappy groom. Then I see Clyde at his side, holding him up.

“He’s flagged, dude,” Clyde mutters, obviously embarrassed that his best friend got drunk enough at an engagement party that he had to be cut off.

Let me tell you, that’s in no way more embarrassing than having your friend boink the bride.

“Shit!” Craig yells again, “Broflovski and Marsh having a lovers spat?”

I roll my eyes, and cross my arms, “No. He’s just telling me why he can’t party anymore. Maybe you can explain it to me.”

“Kyle, that’s not-“ Stan objects, but he’s cut off.

“You don’t get it? Duh. South Park’s not Never Never Land, and you’re not a Lost Boy. Maybe he’s just wants to grow the fuck up already,” Craig tells me with a snarky grin.

“You should talk, Peter Pan,” Clyde mumbles, dragging his friend towards the line of cars and waving us good night. Craig flips us off, but he’s been doing that since grade school. It’s more a sign of affection than anything else.

I frown at his surprisingly astute observation. Don’t you hate when drunks make those? I just never thought my best friend would grow up without me. Before me. I’m the mature one, aren’t I? I’m the one who knows wrong from right. Even if I haven’t been acting like it.

“That was not cool,” Stan glares at me, “You didn’t have to drag them into our business.”

“Craig’s smashed, and Clyde wasn’t walking too steady either,” I retort, angry at Stan for putting me in this position. Any of my earlier concern for his mental health is gone. Growing up. Damn, it sounds like a congenital disease. Something destined to be inflicted on us all since we were fetuses. It sounds like throwing up.

Maybe Craig’s right. I just don’t get it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stan shakes his head rapidly, and then curses, “Screw this. I can’t explain anything to you.”

Sarcastically I query, “Oh, so I’m stupid now?”

“Sometimes. When you’ve been drinking,” he shoots back, his dark blue eyes blazing.

“Better than being an idiot while I’m still sober,” I retort, and I know it’s a stupid thing to say even as it comes from my mouth. Stan’s eyes narrow, and then, without another word, he gets up and leaves. Before I can even clamber to my feet, he’s in his car and gone. I’m left sitting on the lawn, staring at his headlights and the green and white of his license plate.

The next thing I hear is a string of expletives.

“FUCK! You fucking kike! You just let that emo pussy drive away?” Cartman screams from beside me. I stare up at him from my vantage point on the ground. His tux is in ruins, and there’s some sort of dark stain across the front of his shirt. Looks like he found more than apple juice when he went exploring.

“Yeah. I did,” I confess. I mostly ignore his next five minute rant, choosing to mull over my options instead. My options, which are pretty much not so much plural. I have one, to be precise. I guess I’m going next door to find Kenny.

Hope he saved me some champagne.

At this point, Cartman breaks into my thoughts, “Jew, tell me he’s coming back!”

“Um. I doubt it,” I reply, “He was pretty pissed.”

“Please God, no! Don’t let me rot here in this black asshole’s house with only a Jew for company!” Cartman begs the sky, “Please?”

“God doesn’t listen to people like you, Cartman,” I tell him sardonically.

Cartman’s a little messed up. Let me tell you why.

The night his mother finally gave him the sex talk was the awkwardest moment of his life. She sat him down and declared, “Eric, snookums. I am a lady of the night.”

Cartman, of course, had been attempting to deny that very thing since a young age. Hearing it out loud, straight from the horse’s- well, whore’s- mouth, pretty much killed the tiny grasp he had left on his sanity. He never had a particularly strong grip to begin with, if I’m being frank. Even prior to the Great Confession, he was a psychopath, actually, so not much has changed.

It’s just easier when you pretend there’s a reason for his instability.

“Dude. I’m going next door to find Kenny. You coming?”

Cartman glances at the house next door, which seems like it’s a mile away what with all the distance between the mansions on this block. He observes the same thing I do; girls galore.

“No,” he scowls, “I hope you get an STD.”

“Well I hope you get axe murdered hitchhiking home,” I reply in the sweetest voice I can muster, “Good luck.”

With that said, I make my way across the lawn.

Turns out, it’s a frat party. That’s code for a slice of heaven, if you weren’t aware. There is nothing bad with frat shindigs, as long as you have perfect timing. If you arrive too early, there are never enough girls and the keg’s still foamy from the first tap. Oh, and the music’s usually crap, because whichever random douche fancies himself a DJ hasn’t arrived yet, so they usually put on MTV and you’re forced to listen to Britney and some bubblegum pop rock.

If you get there too late, it’s even worse, because the beer’s tapped out, the jungle juice is all gone, and the girl’s are already fucking other guys like bunnies or puking in stairwells, and no one wants to bang someone who smells like sickly sweet regurgitated fajitas. Plus girls who are too drunk aren’t fun; there’s no challenge.

I walk in right at the opportune time. The music’s jumping, the beer’s flowing, and the girls are just the right amount of drunk. There’s no necessity to act so kind and good that you could make a girl go into a diabetic coma, but no feeling like you roofied them into sucking your cock, either.

I find Kenny where he always is. Right at the center of the action.

I watch as he owns a game of strip beer pong, forcing two girls to get down to their skivvies, and can tell they’re soon to be naked for the rest of the night. I bet Clyde’s having conniptions knowing he missed this party to bring Craig-Pukes-A-Lot home. It must kill.

“Kyle!” Kenny yells to me, right after he lands a ball down one girl’s cleavage, which under my house rules is game over, but here is just a fun party trick. No one wants to end the game when there’s the looming possibility to see if these chicks’ pussies match their hair color.

“You’re doing well,” I mouth back. He waves me over, and I join his side just in time to get handed a cup of jungle juice by some random, drunk girl passing by. She winks and sways her butt as she walks away.

“Fugly bitch,” Kenny spits, and turns back to me, “Get sick of Stanley?”

“He’s pre-menstrual,” I say dismissively, ignoring the nausea in the pit of my stomach. Stan should be here. This is his scene.

I down the drink.

Kenny wins his game, because he’s Kenny, and he’s king of hand eye coordination. He fingers the ball out of so many cups I think he might sprain his digits, but he reigns victorious. The girls end up running around in their birthday suits, but they’re too drunk to care. I wish I was, because one of them jiggles in a very Cartamn-esque way.

I fill Kenny in on Stan’s bitch-fit, and all I get for it is a whistle and a laugh, “Sounds like you’ve been broken up with, Broflovski.”

I punch him the arm, where I know he’s already got a bruise from Token.

Hey, I’m a spiteful kind of guy.

“Goddamn, man,” Kenny pouts, “I’m just sayin’.”

“You need to keep your mouth shut sometimes, is what I’m saying,” I retort, and then I forgive him because he gifts me the remainder of his beer.

A boy walks by, and he’s gotta be a freshman. He looks so much younger than I remember looking when I was that age, like the world’s barely touched him. Stan’s words come back to me, and I think maybe I am a bit fucked up. It’s not like I don’t have the same dreams and goals I had when I first started college; it’s just they seem less important now that they’re within my grasp. Like I could put them on the backburner and they won’t go down in flames while I’m gone.

I don’t know. The future’s there, ahead of me, in my grasp, but it seems so tenuous and faraway. What’s imperative to me right now is being here, in this moment, or any moment. Life’s short, and then you die, isn’t that how it goes?

“Dude,” Kenny says, “You’re checking that guy’s ass out? I didn’t know you swung both ways. I don’t blame you. It’s pretty tight.”

My blond friend cocks his head to the side and watches the freshman saunter by. I have to bite back a wave of sick at the accusation, “Not cool, Ken. Don’t be so gay.”

“Don’t be such a ‘phobe,” he counters, “For all you know, one of us could turn out to be an ass rammer. Me, Cartman, or Stan.”

I laugh, “Cartman maybe. I’ve seen you and Stan chase too much tail to ever be queer. Fucking anal pirates.”

Kenny gives me this inscrutable look, like I’ve said the wrong thing, except I haven’t. That’s the kind of stuff we always say.

Abraham, why am I constantly making missteps tonight? My foot’s gone everywhere but forward, and it feels like it’s living in my mouth.

Even though I was raring to go seconds before; my misgivings about this entire night spring back into my head. I didn’t even want to come, goddamnit. Stan dragged me here.

The back of my neck itches and throbs, and I feel vomit rising in my throat, and I just want to hide in my room, where no one can see me.

I tell Kenny I’m calling a cab. It’s the first time in ages I’ve left a party before it ended. 


	7. You Can Have Your Conscience All You Want

_Will they breathe our air again? Who will sing their blues for them? When you’re feeling moved, you can have your conscience all you want. You can say I do nothing, yeah. I put it off. Where you gonna go if they come for you? Will there be someone left to sing your blues?_

_-Gotta Be Somebody’s Blues by Jimmy Eat World-_

* * *

 

Stan and I work side by side in his dad’s office, and fuck if I know anything at all about geology. Mostly I enter shit into databases and look up baseball scores for Randy. It’s not the most intellectually stimulating job, but I took it primarily because I get to spend the day talking to Stan. Who doesn’t want to work with their best friend? It’s the college dream, really, putting off the real world and spending all day slacking off with your favorite person.

Well, except today. I really don’t want to be working with Stan today.

I'm hung over, which in retrospect makes me think next time I’m coerced into going to a party, just say no is the way to go. RSVPs be damned. I doubt Token was entranced by my presence.

…I wonder if the wedding’s still on. The party kept going, but Clyde assured me that was because Heidi and Token disappeared upstairs to have a premarital spat, leaving all those unconscionable guests to the open bar.

If there’s free booze in this town, it doesn’t matter how awkward and tense the atmosphere gets. Bring on the party.

Ugh, party. Liquor. Puke. God, I need to. My stomach’s turning. That might be because I’m staring at the nondescript door of the Geological Center, wondering if Stan’s here yet or not.

Or it might be because I stopped by Seven Eleven for taquitos on the cab ride home. Kenny and I pigged out.

I don’t get a chance to deliberate calling in sick for very long. Mostly because Randy Marsh, Stan’s dad, nearly slams it into my face upon emerging from the Center.

“Kyle? Damn, son. You can’t go standing ‘round here like some kind of idiot. Somebody’ll get hurt,” Randy chuckles, guessing, “Hung over?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, sir,” I reply, because Randy’s cool like that. He’s always been the ‘party dad’, which has pretty much irritated Stan to no end. There’s a reason he’s such a responsible, polite boy; that reason springs from all the times he had to weasel his dad out of trouble growing up.

“Stan’s under the weather too. When I was your age, I could handle my liquor a lot better.”

I don’t believe that, but I don’t say so either.

When Randy finally stops going down memory lane, I escape past him into the building. I don’t feel relieved; right inside is Stan, sorting through a filing cabinet with his jeans riding so low I can see his crack.

“Uh. H-hey dude,” I say, hating myself for the way my voice cracks.

Stan glances up, and for the first time in all the years we’ve been friends, I can’t read him. He gives me a gruff ‘hey’ and returns to the filing. I’m left standing awkwardly by the door, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do.

The rest of the day goes pretty much the same way. Every time I try to talk to Stan, he brushes me off. He’s not outright rude; his momma raised him better than that. But no matter what I say, he gives me a distant look and a short answer. When I ask him to lunch he says he’s busy. When I ask him if he caught the latest Red Wings game, he says it sucked. When I ask him if he wants to hang out later, he says no.

By the time I get home later that night, I’m pissed. Like, raring to go. I pick up my phone and punch Stan’s phone number in, because I know if I just call him straight from the contact list I’ll hit the stupid send button so hard that my finger will go through the case. At least dialing lets me evenly distribute my anger on all the numbers.

It comes to nothing of course. Stan doesn’t pick up.

It’s not the first time in my life I’ve gone a day or two without talking to Stan. Hell, I’ve gone months; we had this one epic fight in our sophomore year of high school where we didn’t talk from Halloween to Hanukkah. Still, this is different, because there was no fight. Last night had involved minimal screaming and- okay, that’s a lie. There was some screaming. Name calling, if you will.

But it wasn’t a huge deal. We were drunk. Stan should have forgiven me by now. I’ve forgiven him, haven’t I? Isn’t there like, a law about not forgiving your super best friend? A law that says it’s illegal?

Apparently not.

* * *

An entire week passes full of Stan being noncommittal and completely obnoxious. At first I just put up with it, but by Friday I’ve taken to slamming him into walls with my shoulder in an attempt to get him to even freaking look at me. I call him every night, just in case my attempts are taking a little time to sink in, to no avail.

He apologizes, of course, every day, going ‘Sorry dude, I didn’t know I missed your call’. He makes no other attempts to contact me all day, every day. It’s always me initiating it.

I even snap right before we go home that Friday, screaming, “I’m sorry, okay?”

Even that doesn’t move him. The weekend finds me shell shocked and feeling like a total pussy. I have no idea what to do.

It’s the first weekend in years that I spend entirely at home, curled up on the couch and forcing my little brother to watch Disney movies with me instead of going out with his friends. I don’t think he resents me for it too much. Ike’s kind of an understanding little shit sometimes. He just curls up next to me on the couch and gets me ice cream when I ask for it. I think he’s just kind of glad to spend time with me. It’s a weird feeling.

Another week passes, and Stan’s nothing but nice and apathetic. I want to smash his face in. I spend the next weekend with Kenny, trolling bars and meeting girls who have no regard for their lives or respect for themselves. I can’t bring myself to bang a single one of them, and end up coming home two nights in a row around four in the morning, wasted and miserable.

Stan still isn’t picking up my calls.

I guess I’m overreacting. I mean, even Kenny’s been calling me Drama and telling me to get my shit together, that I’m imagining things. I mean, to the casual observer, Stan isn’t acting weird. He’s calm, polite, and completely professional.

That’s the thing though- that’s the way Stan acts with normal people. Not his best friend. Not me.

I hate to say I’m special, but with Stan, it’s true. Or at least, it always has been.

After my unsuccessful bar hopping weekend, I redouble my efforts. On Monday, I force Stan to have lunch with me. I make small talk about sports, and he hmms and mmms at the right times, but contributes nada to the actual conversation. On Tuesday morning, I finally cave.

“What is your problem, dude? Are you mad at me? Aren’t you? I can’t figure it out!” I’m yelling at the top of my lungs.

Luckily the Center is empty, except the Richter scales I’m shaking up with my shrill ass voice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, leafing through some papers.

“You do. You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I accuse, “You’ve been-“ I don’t know what word to choose. Ignoring isn’t right, and neither is avoiding, “-treating me fucking weird.”

“Kyle,” he sighs, his tone patronizing.

“Look, I said I’m sorry. I’ve tried everything I can think of to get you to treat me normally. What can I do, Stan? Tell me!”

“You’re imagining things. I’m treating you like I always do.”

“Bull.”

Stan rolls his eyes, “Calm down. Look, I’ll admit I’ve been a little distracted-“

“Because of our fight!”

“-no, not because of our fight, dude. I just have some stuff going on. I’ve been looking for an apartment. Living at home is getting to be a bitch, and-“ one look at my face tells him something’s wrong, “-dude?”

“I-um,” I bite my lip, hating myself more with every second that passes, “I thought we were going to get an apartment together?”

“Oh. Shit, I forgot,” he scratches his head absently, “Well, you wouldn’t want to live with me anyway. It’s not going to be like a frat house, or anything.”

“That’s what you think it would be like living with me?”

He gives me this shrug that says ‘duh’.

“You don’t want to party anymore. What the hell do you want to do?”

Stan’s cobalt eyes pierce through me as he says, “Settle down. Get a real life. Maybe marry a nice girl, someday.”

My laugh is biting and harsh, “Ditch your best friend.”

“Kyle! God, no. I wouldn’t ditch you.”

“I don’t believe you,” I snap, and walk away. I can feel his gaze on my back, penetrating, but mostly curious. He doesn’t even really understand why I’m mad. That’s what sucks the most.

* * *

 

After work, I kind of lose it.

I leave first, picking up Kenny from his shithole job and then sitting with him in his car around the corner from work and waiting for Stan to lock up. I’ve been talking to Randy as part of my investigation into figuring him out, and he said that Stan hasn’t been coming home until late at night. He figured Stan was out with me. Ha.

If Stan’s going somewhere, maybe it can at least explain why he hasn’t been picking up my calls and giving me shitty apologies for it.

“This is ridiculous, Broflovski. You’re losing it,” Kenny tells me. He’s made the executive decision of letting me drive. I’m pretty sure he wants to pretend I’m a chauffeur. Or he’s just fucking lazy.

“No,” I say firmly, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are turning white, “Something’s going on. I know it is.”

“Yeah. Your sanity’s fleeing to the great beyond,” Kenny mutters, pulling out a rope of beef jerky he’d stowed away in the dash board about three years ago and munching on it.

“Shut up, fucker.”

Stan’s car leaves the lot, but he doesn’t go home. I follow him all the way to North Park, tailing him like a detective in a movie. Kenny sings out loud to some hits station on the radio, his voice like an angel. I sing to some of the songs too, off key.

Kenny doesn't seem to mind.

Finally, we reach a wooded area on the outskirts of North Park. There are lights out there, and a moving, breathing mass of people. I’ve only been to one of them before, but I recognize it instantly. My only question is who the hell has a rave on a Tuesday night?

Stan emerges from his car, and he’s wearing all black. He never dresses like this in front of me, because I have this weird neurosis that he’s going to turn into a pussy emo fag on me and force me to watch the fucking Breakfast Club and cut myself or something. Then there will be pink elephants doing a samba and octopi mud wrestling.

I don’t know; my imagination’s a little too vivid for words. But it could happen. Really.

Anyway, he’s making his way towards the forest in black jeans and a black t-shirt that fits him in all the right places, his hair carefully stylized just so. He must have changed in the car, because he did not look like that on the way to work. I see some dude hand him a red cup, and okay, I get pissed.

Really pissed. I’m seeing red as I jump out of the car, ignoring Kenny calling my name. Stan’s making his way towards the center of the rave, where a bonfire’s glowing in a clearing. As I weave through people with spider limbs and glowing eyes, their sweat slick skin rubbing against mine like eels, I get angrier and angrier. Finally I reach him, clamping my hand down on his shoulder and pressing my fingers into his flesh so tightly I’m probably leaving a mark.

His eyes fly open, “Kyle?”

“You ditched me so you could dress all in black and go to raves?” I screech over this pounding, thrumming music that hits me all the way in my chest, my voice incredulous.

“Kyle, that’s not-“

I’m not naïve, “How long have you been doing this without me?”

He shifts uncomfortably, “Just once or twice. Tonight was my last time.”

Someone calls out ‘Raven, dude!’ and I think I literally shatter there, in the vibrant, neon glow permeating the woods as Stan turns and waves them away.

“You’ve had this whole secret life that you’ve been hiding from me. Not cool,” I yell, wanting to punch him again. My fingers clench and unclench by my side.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Stan says, his voice so low I can barely hear it.

Nothing? Really? I’ve never kept secrets from him. Fucking never.

“Screw you.”

“Kyle, I swear, I’ve only come here like five times ever, dude. This was my last time before-“ he stops, spreading his hand enigmatically, “Real life.”

I don’t listen, marching through the crowd. Whatever. I’m done with this. I’m done with his fake ass excuses.

“Kyle!” I can hear his voice fading as I get closer to the car. He’s not even coming after me. I open the driver’s door and say, “C’mon, Kenny.”

I just want to get away. 


	8. I'll Bring The Fire

_I see your dirty face hide behind your collar. What is done in vain; truth is hard to swallow. So you pray to God to justify the way you live a lie, live a lie, live a lie. And you take your time, and you do your crime. Well you made your bed. I’m in mine. Because when I arrive, I, I’ll bring the fire. Make you come alive, I can take you higher. What this is, forgot? I must now you remind you let it rock, let it rock, let it rock._

_-Let It Rock by Kevin Rudolf ft. Lil Wayne-_

* * *

It’s a small mercy Wednesday afternoon when my mom asks me to call out of work early so I can drive her to an optometry appointment. And by drive, she means accompany her, because she's still blissfully unaware of my license situation. It's great though, because I don’t think I can stand any more of Stan.

I guess that’s not the prime feeling you want to have for your best friend, but I don’t know how else to think. He told me he wants to quit partying, and then I find him at a rave?

Dude. It gives me a headache just remembering it.

Stan, for his part, actually tries to talk to me. The stonewalling of yesterweek has given way to full on begging for my attention. I can’t lie and say it doesn’t feel good to be the center of his focus, but hey, no one holds a grudge like angry Jew.

That is to say me, ‘cause I’m for sure angry as all get out.

How could he give me all that ‘let’s-not-party-let’s-be-grownups-now-kthxbye’ crap and then go to a rave? Am I not enough of an emo pussy for him? I can go to raves. Okay, I’m not entirely sure what going to a rave entails, other than craptastic music and dropping E, but hey, I can learn. I doubt it takes a PhD.

Today was the worst, too. Stan cornered me when I tried to go to the bathroom, my hand toying with the zipper on my pants and my dick throbbing with how hard I fucking needed to pee. And he’s all, “Kye, I swear, man, it was just this one last time before I’m a part of the real world.”

He’d said it before, of course, that night. Whatever.

Even though he claimed he’d only been a couple times, they’re times that I wasn’t a part of. I know I’m harping, but Stan’s had this whole other life and he’s been excluding me from it. That just burns. Super best friends don’t do that shit, man.

Maybe I’m being a pussy.

Probably.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to forgive him. Forgiving him would be like losing. Losing my pride. Losing the fight. Losing Stan to the world of adults. No, forgiveness is not in the cards.

At least, that’s what I think until the next day, post-optometrist, when my super best friend ambushes me from the bushes.

He’s lucky he didn’t have to stay there all day; I was this close to calling in sick.

“Kyle!” he yelps, all wild eyed, even though he’s the one who jumped out at me when I was fumbling for my keys to the Center.

“Uh,” I say, because I’m startled and can’t keep my mouth shut when my friend’s acting like such a freak. I guess I broke the silence vow, but really, do you blame me?

Stan takes that ‘uh’ as a sign that I’m speaking to him and throws his arms around my neck.

“Dude,” he breathes into the skin of my throat, and okay, this is a little too close for comfort when I’m still angry and we’re acting like fags in public, “I’ve missed you.”

“Uh,” I say again, because really, how can I respond to that? No way am I telling him I missed him too. That’s just the epitome of fagdom. Plus, I totally didn’t. Miss him.

Maybe a little. When I was watching MTV and had no one to make fun of the dumb reality shows over the phone with.

And when I went bar hopping with Kenny two nights ago.

And when I was snorting in hysterical laughter over Randy’s replacing the entire database with a ‘fart sound board’ in Microsoft Excel yesterday, but couldn’t share the idiocy with my best friend.

Damnit, I missed him.

I’m halfway to returning the hug when Stan pulls away, my neck still warm from his breath. He stares at me, drinking me in, and it’s more uncomfortable than just having his mouth against my neck. No one’s ever looked at me quite like this, like maybe I’m important enough to fear losing. Not even Stan, and we’ve been friends forever and a day.

“Dude,” I say carefully, weeks of not talking to each other making my voice sound raw, “Are you okay?”

He snaps out of it and hurries to explain, “I just…this thing where we're both next to each other, but not…it’s not cool.”

Yeah. That I get.

“I know.”

“The rave was a onetime thing, Kyle. What I said to you at Token’s party…it’s true. I’m sick of acting like a kid. But I wanted a chance to have a…a…”

“A last stand, Custer?”

He smiles wryly, “Yeah.”

“Right. So…this not partying thing…this growing up thing…is the not talking to me thing permanent?”

“What?”

“You know what. You’ve been avoiding me and putting me off and ‘acting distant’,” I paraphrase him, glaring all the while, “Ignoring my calls.”

He rakes a hand through his thick, raven’s wing hair, “I told you, it’s not like that. I’ve got stuff going on-“

“Yeah. Apartment hunting without me. Acting like a douche. Going to raves. I can see how your social life is taxing.”

“Kyle.”

I step back, “No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Wait-“ sheer panic fills his cobalt eyes, and I’m amazed I have that effect on him, “-just wait. What if I promise to make time for you?”

Make time for me? Really? Like I’m a stray fucking dog he picked up?

He can see that doesn’t go down well by the jut of my chin and the defiance in my eyes, I guess, because he murmurs, “That’s not what I meant. I meant…give me a chance. To make the last few weeks up to you.”

I hate that I can’t deny him anything.

* * *

 

Later that day, Kenny drops by with lunch from the local Kwik Mart in the form of wraps. He only brings one for me because he’s under the impression Stan and I are still fighting, and in this instance, he’s sided with me.

Kenny and I became thick as thieves around high school, but he gets on pretty well with Stan too, usually. Normally he wouldn’t take sides in a fight between the two of us, but since the fight revolves around Stan being a pussy and not wanting to have a good time, Kenny’s hedonistic tendencies have urged him to back me.

He feels pretty bad when he realizes we’ve kissed and made up, so to speak.

Not bad enough to stop being a pervert. We’re sitting on the hood of Kenny’s car, eating, when Wendy Testaburger approaches. Last time I saw her was a quick visit to dad’s office, and I’m still sort of terrified of the chick, to be frank.

“Here puss. Here puss, puss, puss,” Kenny calls after her as she approaches, making a whistling noise like he’s calling out to a real live cat. He grins and hops of the car, disappearing inside my workplace; I suppose to warn Stan that the she-beast cometh.

“He is such a pig,” Wendy murmurs wearily when she gets close, with the disgusted fondness that comes of having known Kenny all her life.

“We all are.”

She eyes me sprawled out on top of Kenny’s car, and I’m not sure if I should cover my balls in fear or try to look as innocent as possible.

Then she says out of nowhere, “Not all the time.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re not pigs all the time. You and Stan, I mean. I presume that’s who you’re talking about.”

“Well, yeah,” I reply, not getting where this is going or where it’s even coming from. I don’t mind being a pig. Seriously. It’s part of the male genetic makeup. I’ve made my peace with it.

“Look, you guys do some fucked up shit. I’m not denying that.”

“But-“

Wendy cuts me off, continuing, “I remember when Stan tried to have a threesome in my bedroom freshman year of college, and that time he busted Bebe’s TV trying to play keep away with it when he was drunk, and that time he had sex with Red in my bed. And then there’s you. _You_ set up jello wrestling in my apartment over our last winter break. _You_ let me blow you and ran off. Oh yeah, Kyle. I have a loooong memory for all the shit you guys do.”

Her eyes narrow, and apologies spill out of my lips like word vomit. I’m never lounging in the parking lot again; it’s like being a sitting duck for angry hookups.

She holds up a hand, maybe to pause the look of terror that must be on my face, “But you’re not alone.”

“What?”

“I said, you’re not alone. I've done my fair share of bullshit. And, I don't know. You guys act like chauvinist dicks half the time, drunk or not, but you’ve got good hearts.”

“I don’t get it.”

I really don’t. Where’d all the homicidal rage go?

“Look, we all do crazy stuff. Hell, one time I ran down my street yelling ‘Party Naked’ while I was drunk…wearing…well, I was naked.”

I smile. Yeah, I remember that.

“And I have one night stands too; men didn’t invent those, you know? You act like you’re victimizing us because you act like jerks after, or whatever, but have you ever really forced a girl? Have you ever taken advantage of one when she was too drunk?”

I think about it. I’ve had drunk sex, and maybe I’ve pulled out a lot of tricks to get into a girl’s pants, but if a girl said no, I never forced her. That would be rape. Rape is bad. See, I listened in fourth grade.

“That’s what I thought,” Wendy nods her head before I can answer, “You’re too good for that. Even with me; you didn’t force me to go down on you. I made that choice. Sure, it was a drunk, foggy choice, but it was one. So keep that in mind while you’re mulling this over- you may be an asshole; a huge one at that, but it would be hypocritical for me to say that you were entirely at fault for everything. I’m not a porcelain doll, and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

“I think they call that ‘slutty’.”

“Yeah, well, they are weak minded pricks, whoever they are. Women like mindless fucking too, you know, and it’s blasphemous for us to be put down for it.”

For the first time since high school, I look at Wendy as more than a pair of legs and boobs. I forgot how good a friend she could be.

Then she adds, “That’s an offer by the way,” and my head goes blank. She laughs and tacks on, “I’m kidding.”

Oh. Damn.

“So what you’re saying is…?”

Wendy grins, “I’m saying that you could probably tone down the debauchery a bit, sure, but only because you need to grow up. Not because you have anything to regret. Wait…Do you have anything regret?”

Funny how people keep telling me to grow up.

“I’ve made a couple of mistakes.”

“I mean real regrets. Like life altering regrets.”

“Um…no. I haven’t really done much with my life.”

“Well there you go. Get out there and start changing things up! And maybe start keeping it in your pants, ‘kay?” she slaps me on the shoulder.

While this pep talk is invigorating and all, I’m confused as hell, “Did you come all the way down here to tell me that?”

Wendy laughs, “No. But it seemed as good a time as any.”

“Been storing it all up, haven’t you?”

“Well. I’ve been thinking that maybe I was a little harsh on you before. You tend to overthink things, if I remember correctly.”

Can’t argue with that.

“I didn’t want you to feel guilty for taking advantage of me or anything,” I try to look innocent and pretend I had felt guilty. I mean, I had. Slightly. More so because of Stan, but okay, “You’re Stan’s friend, and I need to get along with you.”

What does Stan have to do with anything?

I find out two seconds later when Stan emerges from the Center, his cheeks flushed as he murmurs, “Babe, what’re you doing here? I told you I’d meet you at-“

And then his eyes meet mine.

I’m not a mind reader, but I can tell what he’s thinking.

‘Shit.’

Everything’s suddenly starting to make sense.    


	9. Write Your Name In The Stars

_On your side teach me the real thing. No time to think of the old scene. Say my name when you want to, it’s just fine. I’m still here, forever in your arms. Write your name in the stars. I am trying to heal your heart. On your side, let’s talk about everything. Got no time for words that you’ve already heard. Say my name when you want to, you just leave when you want to. We’re still here, we’re still alive._

_-Aurora by Lapush-_

* * *

Stan gives me this awkward half-grin thing that I recognize, ‘cause I’m the one who usually has to make up the accompanying bullshit story that goes along with it. It’s his uh-oh-I’m-in-trouble look, patent pending. He’s this close to spouting some lie to cover up for what he just said.

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s scared enough of me to lie.

And damnit, that really makes me a pussy, because I shouldn’t care either way.

I turn to Wendy, arch an eyebrow, and paste on this devil-may-care smile I perfected somewhere in college, “Babe?”

Her cheeks color this little pink glow, like a fucking blushing bride or something, and she says, “Whoops.”

I can feel Stan’s eyes on the back of my head, and I refuse to meet them.

“How- uh,” I clear my throat, because something’s sticking there, something I can’t place or name, “How long have you two…”

I can’t even finish the sentence. It makes me kind of nauseous even thinking it; that maybe the Stan-N-Wendy show is back on. I always hated reruns, and I thought they’d killed this thing’s syndication back in high school. Shit. I make a vague gesture with my hands to encompass the words I can’t say, the ‘been together’, or the ‘been repeating history’, or the ‘been sneaking around behind my back like backstabbing Benedict Arnolds’.

Wendy shifts, her eyes bright, and I can tell she thinks this is a great thing. So not The End Of The World, when it actually is.

Because…well, damn. Just because.

“Only a few weeks,” she babbles, “When Stan showed up at my door after Heidi’s engagement party, I was shocked. I mean, it was only two days after that party. You and I…well, you know. I figured I’d be the last person Stan would want to talk to-“

“Wendy-“ Stan’s voice is hard-edged as he tries to cut in.

She barrels right on, “And of course he asked why I hadn’t been at the engagement- Heidi hasn’t spoken to me since I stole her boyfriend like, three Christmas breaks ago. He was all sympathetic and sweet, and he asked me out to coffee, and we’ve been together ever since.”

I’m nodding and smiling like this is the greatest thing since sliced bread, because that’s what girls like guys to do when they tell them news like this. Girls don’t get that guys like short answers. The shorter the better.

Plus…   I knew he was hiding something. I knew it. How could I have missed this? Typical Stan’s-got-a-girlfriend behavior. Always being busy, never able to pick up his calls?

Okay, maybe the hiding it from me bit isn’t part of the usual act, but hey, it’s Wendy. He had to have known I wouldn’t like it. And it’s not like hiding things is new for him. Mr. I-Go-To-Raves.

There’s a reason for that disliking his coupledom, by the way, one that has nothing to do with my getting anywhere near Wendy’s snatch.

Yeah, let me tell you about Wendy and Stan. It’s the most boring epic you’ve ever heard.

They were childhood sweethearts. Up until eighth grade, their on-again-off-again relationship was part of the status quo at South Park Elementary. Then, come high school, Wendy dumped Stan’s ass for about the nth time so she could date quarterback of Park County Regional High. Freshman and sophomore year found Stan working his ass off to appease her by landing a spot on the varsity team. It worked, because Stan’s athletic ability is better than golden, and he landed the recently vacated spot of Wendy’s ex-honey. It helped that he also pitched for our baseball team.

Anyway, by then she’d already moved on to some geek from the drama department, but naturally she dropped him like a hotcake when she saw Stan’s newly achieved social status. I might be making her out to be a ho, but seriously, you weren’t there. You didn’t have to deal with every single one of my man’s Stan’s nervous meltdowns. Being best friend extraordinaire, I did. So Stan gets on the football team, lands the girl, and starts partying like a rockstar. He leaves me behind in the dust until one day I agree to go to a party with him. We’re back in Friendshipland, and a few years pass. That’s about when Wendy decides to throw a total cow and say they can’t be together when they’re going to different colleges.

Stan, devastated, ends up leaving for school and comes back the following winter a different person. Still him, but mellower by the second. I have worked like hell to get to know that person, only to recently find out he likes to go to raves sans me-still harping, I know-and now Wendy wants to fuck everything up again? Remake Stan into something she wants?

Sorry, there’s no way I can let that happen.

Like I even get a choice in the matter.

I finally turn to face Stan, to meet his gaze with my eyes blazing. I hope. My mom always tells me I have piercing eyes, like a movie star, and I’m hoping that some of that star power hits Stan in the chest.

It doesn’t seem to work.

I cross my arms for emphasis, and he says, “Hey Wends, I’ve got to get back to work. Meet you after?”

“Okay,” she gives him a killer grin, which he returns with a weak smile. After she makes herself scarce, I get my turn.

“Care to explain?”

“Kyle, it’s not really…,” he falters at my expression, “…that big a deal.”

“Really Stan? Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a huge deal,” I glare.

“I don’t get what’s up with you, man. The last month, you’ve been so frickin’ pissy.”

“I’ve been pissy?” and okay, I’m yelling now, which might kind of prove the pissy thing, but who cares? Stan is so obviously wrong, “Who the hell didn’t talk to me for two weeks straight? Who the hell hid the fact that he was going to raves and fucking his own ex? Since when have you ever kept secrets like that from me?”

“I keep secrets? You got a fucking tattoo on your neck that matches fucking KENNY!” he screams.

You would think that alone would be enough to bring Kenny a running, but I’m pretty sure he’s found Randy’s stash of porn inside the Center, because I don’t see hide nor hair of him.

“That’s what this is about? My tattoo?” I touch my neck, where the skin is mostly healed, but still throbs a little, “I told you like, a day after I got it dude.”

“You didn’t tell me shit,” Stan’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit I can understand. My own fingers are itching for a cigarette, “You just let me find out.”

“You’re arguing with me over semantics? Seriously?”

“I’m not arguing with you about anything,” Stan sighs, “I’m done arguing with you. That’s all we seem to be doing lately.”

“And whose fault is that?” I shoot back, not ready to give up the fight. I’m a regular pitbull.

“Yours. Mine. Ours. Whatever, dude. Let’s just…give it some space,” he turns to walk away, but he can’t, because I’ve got hold of his wrist and I’m pulling him down the steps of the Center, towards his car. He stares at it like its alien technology, but I snatch his keys from his pocket and force him into the passenger seat.

“Kyle,” he protests, but I ignore him. I’ve got this grim look on my face that makes the rest of his objections dies on his lips.

He doesn’t even ask where we’re going when I pull out of the parking lot.

I can't believe him. I can't believe he begged me to forgive him and now he's all space. _Again_. Like us not talking has worked out so far.

When we were younger, we built this tree house, and it was kind of fail. As we got older, we added onto it and fixed it up, and it’s even half decent looking. I yank Stan out of the car, stalking determinedly towards the tree house. There was a time, once, when the two of us lived in the thing, when we were fifteen and rebelling against our parents and convinced we could survive anything.

The thing seems lower to the ground than I remember, and it hits me that I haven’t actually been to Stan’s house since my last winter break.

Still, wordless, I coerce him into climbing ahead of me, testing the nearly rotted wooden ladder up into the branches.

When I get up there, Stan’s lips are pressed together so hard that all the color has leeched out of them. I make myself comfortable amongst all the filth and rubbish that has accumulated since we abandoned the place, and then I announce, “We’re not giving each other space. That’s not happening. Space is what you give girlfriends you haven’t figured out how to break up with yet. Space is for planets. Space isn’t for you and me.”

He just looks at me, his cobalt eyes unfathomable.

“So we’re going to sit here, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck has crawled up your butt. I’m staying as long as it takes.”

“I could get past you,” he finally says.

“Not without a fight,” I challenge.

“I’d beat you.”

I shrug, “Maybe. You’d end up with a broken jaw first.”

“What about Kenny? We left him-“

“Kenny can entertain himself.”

“Kyle-“

“Stan,” I warn back, so completely done with excuses, “Tell me what's going on.”

“I can’t,” he says, and his look is almost desperate, and damn- maybe this doesn’t have to do with Wendy and raves and the need to grow up, ‘cause Stan hasn’t sounded like that since that one time he almost got kicked off the football team.

“It’s just me, dude.”

“That’s the fucking problem!” he bursts, “You!”

Okay. That I was not expecting.

“I-what did I do?”

“You really want to know?” he sneers, feral and terrifying, “You really want an explanation?”

I nod, slowly, because that’s the only thing I can do.

That’s when Stan lunges at me.

Having a football player fly full force at you isn’t exactly unintimidating. I’ll admit; I cower a little. I mean, I’m taller than Stan by at least two inches, but he’s broader than me by at least three. He wasn’t joking when he said he could kick my ass.

Ducking my head makes me miss most of the action though; namely, Stan pinning me to the splinter ridden floor of the tree house. It makes me glad I’ve got jeans and thin jacket on, let me tell you.

So he’s got me flat on the ground, and I’m waiting for fists to fly, because what the hell else is going to happen? I figure he’s angry enough that I’ll let him score a few punches, and then maybe I’ll see if my grappling skills have improved any. Fighting on the floor is hard as fuck; near impossible. I took a self defense class once in college on it though, so I figure I’ve got a one up there, after the handicap’s done and over with and I’ve got a shiner, anyway.

My eyes are clenched shut, because I figure I’m getting punched anyway, but after a minute or so, I realize that Nothing’s Happening.

Like a moron, I open my eyes to see what’s going on.

There’s Stan, his body maybe inches from mine, and I’d kind of guessed that was true because I could feel the fabric of his shirt grazing my belly, but I sure as shit didn’t expect his nose to be hovering so close to mine. It’s stupid, because I should have; now I can feel his breath on my lips.

“Uh, dude. This is a little…" gay, I want to say, but I remember his adverse reaction to the word fag a few weeks ago and decide not to test my luck.

He’s staring straight at me, scrutinizing me. His eyes are so intense that I feel something in my gut, something screaming for me to run, or maybe lash out, but this is Stan. Nothing bad is going to happen. Maybe he’ll hit me, yeah, but nothing worse than that.

I must not be psychic.

Something worse does happen.

Still staring straight at me, like he sees something inside me that’s been hiding, Stan lowers his body against mine. And okay, ow, he’s a little heavy, and I want to tell him to get off. Except now our noses are really touching, and it’s only the slightest support of his forearms that is keeping our faces from mashing together, and I’m about to tell him that I really fucking hope Cartman doesn’t somehow find out we’re like this because he’ll blackmail our asses until kingdom come, and that’s when Stan’s lips brush mine.

They’re dry, but soft, and I barely feel it. I don’t even react because I’ve barely got time to process what just happened, except then there’s a second kiss. This one lasts a little longer, and it feels like when a snowflake lands on your lips, and then melts there, slow and cold, but barely wet enough to last longer than a few seconds. He pulls back again, and yeah, this time I’m processing. This time my eyes are widening and the words are tumbling out of my mouth and I’m asking, “What the he-“

But I can’t say anything because he’s kissing me for real now, with tongue and lips and teeth clashing together, and I’m thrashing a little to try to get him _off_ , but not like that, because I don’t _want_ to get Stan off like that. He’s Stan. He’s a guy. And shit, that’s really evident, because I feel him against my thigh, and he’s rubbing against the front of my jeans, and hell, now I can’t think because-because…

My mouth opens a little wider and my eyelids flicker closed, and maybe the fists my hands had balled into loosen a little, clinging to the sides of Stan’s jacket.

I’m kissing back now, because it seems like the only way to make Stan rub up against me like that again, and because I’m not in my right mind. Kenny must have spiked the soda he brought me along with that sandwich; there’s something warm growing inside me, flickering beneath my ribcage. It only seems to augment the heat in my dick, the hardness in my pants begging for the softness of something, anything, even if it’s Stan’s-my best friend’s-lips. He makes this noise that shoots straight to my cock, and if anything, I’m even harder now, and I’m _so_ confused but I don’t even care because I can’t think. I can’t do anything except gasp and pant and kiss back.

I have to shove him away, and he’s staring at me, his lips red- because of me. His hair disheveled- because of me. His eyes darkened with lust, pupils blown wide like he’s on some kind of drug- because of me.

I don’t know what to do with it; this sudden, ravenous hunger that makes me want to push Stan’s pants down his hips and do things to him that I’d never once thought about doing to another guy. It burns in me, and he’s giving me this look, this full, insolent glare and pout thing that makes me want to stick something in his mouth, just to see how disrespectful he can be with a dick blocking his airway.

“It’s you,” he suddenly whispers, “I can’t- fucking- get you out of my mind. Your cum on Wendy’s face. Your dick.”

He paws a hand over the front of my pants to emphasize his point, and I groan into it.

His lips descend back down, and he’s biting hard on my throat, sucking, pulling. I have this feeling, this sense of…something. Like relief, but better, like something’s clicked. I can’t even think about being gay, queer, homosexual, whatever, because this is Stan. My super best friend. My kind of idol. The one guy I can’t deny anything.

I arch my neck more, trying to let him get closer. His mouth moves up, towards the curls behind my ear.

Except maybe something doesn’t click for him. Now he’s pulling back, away, and there’s something markedly close to disgust on his face.

“This isn’t real,” he whispers, and I don’t know if he’s saying this just isn’t happening, that it’s a dream, not real life; or maybe it shouldn’t be happening? Or maybe he’s saying that he’s made a mistake, and I’m too dense to know what the fuck’s going on because I’m still thinking at half mast, and fuck. He’s on his feet, he’s running towards the ladder. I’m yelling after him and he’s gone.

I don’t bother knocking on his door. His car’s not even in the driveway.

When I get home, I take my clothes off and stared in the mirror. There, right under my collar bone, is a hickey the size of my fist. Shit. It’s like a mark, like a sign that reads ‘Stan Marsh’s Property’. Except Stan Marsh wants nothing to do with me, at least not the way the mark suggests.

I didn’t want this. I don’t even know what it means.

And…

I hate him.

For the first time in my life, I honestly hate my best friend.


	10. I Don't Like It If It Don't Gleam Clean

_In the Ferrari or Jaguar switchin’ four lanes with the top down, screamin’ out money ain’t a thang. Bubble hard in the double R flashin’ the rings with the window cracked holler back, money ain’t a thang. Jigga I don’t like it if it don’t gleam clean and to hell with the price ‘cause the money ain’t a thang. Put it down hard for my dogs that’s locked in the bang. When you hit the bricks, new whips, money ain’t a thang. Come on, y’all wanna floss with us ‘cause across the ball we burn it up. Drop a little paper, baby toss it up. Ya slackin’ on your pimpin’, turn it up. See the money ain’t a thang.  
_

_-Money Ain’t A Thang by Jermaine Dupri ft. Jay-Z-_

* * *

My masculinity’s at an all time low.

Who lets their male best friend kiss them senseless and then ditch them like yesterday’s news? Seriously? Since when has my self esteem been so low that I actually let that happen?

Don’t answer that.

I don’t know whether to be completely disgusted with myself or to be grossed out with Stan, or to take it all as some sort of weird ass prank and let it be. So basically, I know nothing.

I _hate_ knowing nothing. The entire Broflovski family is full of busy-bodies and know-it-alls. It’s my genetic inheritance, man.

When I wake up the next morning, I’m pretty much feeling like maybe moving out of the country and changing my name is a suitable alternative to ever showing up at work again. Ever. 

I call out sick on Friday, and then it’s the weekend at least, so I've got time to think about it.

I mean my French just isn’t that good, and my Spanish is limited to what I’ve learned from Cartman, which basically consists of words that will get me shanked on the streets of Madrid.

Saturday night finds me sitting on my butt surfing google and CNN news and trying to figure out how the world got so fucked up, with no conclusions forthcoming. My mom’s been screaming at me to leave my room for the entire day and I’ve steadfastly refused, with the exception of bathroom breaks and a quick game of war with Ike over lunch.

Being home is like being in stasis. Nothing ever moves forward, and everything feels the same. You know outside this world there’s things happening, moving, changing, but here at home, not even the seasons change.

“What’s got you all hellfire and brimstone, dude? You look like crap.”

I jump to my ceiling, nearly, at the voice emanating from my window. Kenny’s hanging on the ledge out there like some kind of specter, lit by moonlight and the back porch lamp down below.

“-the fuck, dude?” I hiss, widening the crack that Kenny spoke through to a full on entrance. He clambers in, scrawny enough and hard enough in all the right places, making it an easy task.

“I didn’t want to have to go through your mom. She gets scarier with age,” Kenny wiggles his fingers and makes a ghost-story face.

“You could have- oh, I don’t know,” I drawl, “Called?”

“Yeah, but then you would have been a pussy and screened me. Seriously Brof, don’t you know friends don’t screen friends?”

“I don’t screen your calls, Kenny.”

“Liar,” he snorts, “I forgive you though.”

“Oh really? How’d I earn that?” I ask sarcastically.

He grins, “I was hoping you’d ask. We’re going to a bar.”

How am I not surprised?

“I don’t know, Ken. Tonight’s kind of…”

“What, you have more fruitful hours of staring at your ceiling ahead of you? God, if I knew this was all having a bachelor’s degree would get me, I wouldn’t have angsted about not going to college so much.”

“You’re such a douche.”

“And a fantastic drinking buddy, so c’mon. Let’s get this show on the road,” he jerks a thumb towards the window.

“I’m not climbing out that way.”

"You want to go past your mom?” Kenny raises an eyebrow.

“I’m a twenty three year old grownup. I’m perfectly capable of going out at,” I check my watch, “Eleven on a Saturday night.”

“Well, yeah, but,” Kenny shrugs, “She’s your mom.”

I think it over and concede, “Good point.”

We go out through the window.

* * *

 

At the bar I know I'm gonna break down and tell Kenny what’s what. Mostly because I can’t take the stupid jokes and pathetic whining he keeps hurling my way in a feeble attempt to make me spill.

The place we’re at is a hole in the wall near the old elementary school. It’s basically a breeding ground for perverts and hobos, and I doubt a chick has ever seen the inside décor. I’m not really sure why Kenny chose it.

“Tell me,” Kenny goads, “You know you want to tell me!”

“I don’t. Really, I don’t,” I can’t stop my cheeks from burning. What the hell is Kenny going to think? If he knows Stan and I made out like a couple of teenagers, will he freak? Plus, I mean, it’s not wholly my secret to tell. Kenny’s Stan’s friend too.

“You do,” he urges, his voice almost whiny, “You want to!”

“Look, I’m going to feel horrible if I do, Ken. My conscience will kill me.”

“C’mon, Kyle. Consciences are useless. Consciences are what hurt when everything else feels so good,” Kenny purrs the last bit.

“You stole that.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you can’t prove it. Quote’s as good as mine!” Kenny crows, like he actually even cares about a string of stupid words. He was being goofy just to cheer me up. It’s kind of working.

Something about it transports me back to when we were all fourteen and the world was our fucking oyster. I had all these floppy curls and muscles that I hadn’t grown into, and Stan wore pants so tight we were scared he’d become a eunuch, the budding jock inside him fighting for dominion over his inner emo musician. He never really did sort that out; even now he’s blended, half masculine football player, half guitar strumming pussy.

And then there was Kenny. When we were fourteen, Kenny was a gangly train wreck. He was filthy and devilish and everyone loved him; he might as well have been named Huckleberry Finn. The only problem was, he liked everything too fast; cars, women, even drinking. He was completely out of control.

Then, one day during our sophomore year, he up and settled down. He started showing up for classes and landed a part time job, and even though he knew he was never getting out of town with anything resembling a degree, he worked on making something of himself. It occurs to me that I don’t really know how far he’s gotten. I think he’s taking classes at the community college in North Park, but I don’t know what he’s learning or even if he likes it.

I resolve to ask him when he says, “So really. What’s wrong?”

I’m kind of a sucky friend. At the very least, I can confide in Kenny.

“Stan kind of…kissedme.”

“Dude, what was that last bit? Stan missed you?”

“I said,” I take a deep breath, “Stan kissed me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you have to say?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Um, congrats?”

“Congrats? Kenny, I’m not fucking gay! And neither is Stan, if the way he bolted after is any indication.”

“He’ll come around,” Kenny says vaguely.

“I can’t believe this. I tell you I got kissed, by a dude, and your reaction is oh, he’ll come around? What the fuck, dude?”

“What, you want me to act surprised?” Kenny screws up his face into an expression of mock-shock, “Oh my god, Kyle. Stan and you did the tongue twister? Really? Wow, I never would have guessed.”

My mind is reeling.

I say flatly, “Except you did.”

“Well, that huge ass hickey you got is a big clue in. No chick has a mouth that big,” he gives me this look that says ‘trust me, I know’, and it makes me think _I_ really _don’t_ want to know.

I’m still skeptical, “That can’t be the only reason you’re not putting on your ‘o’ face and doing a happy dance, Ken.”

“That’s what you think I’d do in this kind of situation? Have some kind of fangasm and do a jig? You’re seriously fucked in the head, Broflovski.”

“You know what I mean,” I roll my eyes, “Any chance to mock and disparage; you usually jump for the chance.”

“While I do think B. Little would be a kickass stripper name, I’m hurt that you think so low of me.”

Yeah, still not buying it.

Kenny was tight with Cartman for years before he started to recognize douchebaggery would only get him so far with the ladies. He knows the ins and outs on how to psych a guy into thinking he’s safe and then dropping a humiliation bomb.

“Okay, look, this isn’t really a surprise.”

“Well…” I gape, “Why the hell not?”

“Dude,” Kenny slides in close to me, tilting his beer, “I see the way you look at Stan.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m just saying, I see it. And I wonder what it would feel like sometimes.”

“What?”

“To be looked at like that. To have you look at me like that.”

I deadpan, “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be.”

“I’ll admit it,” Kenny murmurs, staring into the amber liquid in his cup, “I’m smitten with you, Kyle.”

“Kenny,” I warn.

He cracks up, “Okay. I’m kidding. My gay tendencies don’t run towards albino Jews.”

“Gee, thanks,” I consider murdering him.

“I like joggers though,” he grins, “Have you ever noticed how some dudes’ packages bounce when they-“

“Enough,” I clap both my hands over my ears, praying to never hear the end of that sentence.

“God, lighten up Broflovski.”

“Can we just get back on subject?”

“Well yeah. But didn’t I already say it? I’ve seen the way you look at Stan.”

“I have no idea what you _mean_ by that though. I look at Stan the same as everyone else, Ken.”

“False. You totally hero worship him. It’s sickening, even.”

“I don’t-“

“I wouldn’t worry though. He looks at you the exact same damn way.”

What?

I echo my thoughts, “What?”

“Look, whatever drama Stan’s going through- and don’t lie, that boy has a lot of fucking drama- he’ll get over it. It’s what you two do.”

What we…do?

He sees my blank expression and continues, “I’ll give you the rundown. You and Stan are best butt buddies, right? So you love each other, and then every time you get even a step too close to that realization, one of you bucks and runs like a filly at my uncle’s ranch in Tennessee.”

“You have an uncle in Tennessee?”

“So not the point, Kyle. Anyway, one of you runs, you bitch and you moan, and then you reconcile like its frickin’ confessional time at church on a Sunday. A confessional is-”

“I know what a confessional is you idiot. I was raised in a town full of Christians.”

“No need to get tetchy. Jesus, Kyle.”

“Your analogy is just so- wrong. It’s wrong, Kenny. Stan and I have never been in a fight as bad as the one we just had, and we’ve certainly never thought about kissing each other before.”

“You might not have, but Marsh definitely has. I’ve seen him check out your ass in the office like, three times since that party in North Park.”

“You’ve only been to the office three times since then,” I point out.

“Exactly,” Kenny nods sagely, “And he’s checked you out every goddamned time.”

I take a long swig of beer, because maybe if I drink enough I can drown out every ludicrous word coming out of Kenny’s mouth.

“You’re wrong.”

He shrugs, “If you say so. Say, look at her, man.”

Standing outside the bar, barely visible through the blacked out windows is a girl. She’s this bombastic blonde with legs that never end and candy apple red lips that gleam like plastic in the neon lights outside.

Kenny turns to me and asks, “Are you going to tap that, or am I?”

Looks like I’m in for a long night. 


	11. Like None Of This Had Ever Happened

_The sky is black and grey. These days keep on getting longer. You don’t seem to play around my sandbox anymore. Kiss me at the gate. Like none of this had ever happened. We make believe today, but soon we will be back to normal._

_-Kiss Me At The Gate by The New Monarchs-  
_

* * *

 

I’ve decided after the other night that Kenny can be my bestest new best friend. We can drink life away and completely ignore the existence of Stan Marsh. Except when Monday morning rolls around, I realize I forgot about work.

Yeah. This might throw a wrench in that whole forgetting-Stan plan.

I’m about this close to pocketing the tarnished silver flask grandpa Broflovski gave me as a graduation present when I leave for the morning. Liquid courage is never ill advised, but…I feel like if I don’t face this head on, if I need reinforcement just to talk to my best fucking friend, then maybe I’m not just a coward. Maybe I’m not just less than a man.

Maybe I don’t even deserve to live.

So I manage to set the flask aside, just. Then I manage to suppress an incredible urge to take a swig straight from the bottle.

I’m shocked at this willpower I conjure out of nowhere.

Really, my mother would be proud.

If I told her.

Which I won’t, ‘cause hey, she doesn’t approve of drinking. At all.

Speaking of the momster, she’s yelling up the stairs, informing me I’m late.

Like I didn’t already know it.

When I reach the front door, she’s waiting there, “Kyle, I just don’t get it. You were out so late last night, and it’s obviously affecting your behavior. Late for work, of all things.”

“Ma, it’s okay,” I shake my head, “Mr. Marsh doesn’t mind.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” my mother shakes her head, her red curls piled high like a brushfire, stiff with hairspray, “If you start being irresponsible now, who knows where you’ll end up in the future?”

I tune out, because mom’s lectures usually span lifetimes. When I finally begin listening again, I hear, “-this could be the beginning of a cycle of depravity and- oh, Kyle, what have you been doing with Kenny all night? That boy’s bad news. There weren’t _girls_ involved, were there?”

“No, ma. They don’t let girls into restaurants now. Haven’t you heard? It’s the new apartheid.”

“That’s not funny young man,” she swats at my head, and ow, she’s got to trim those claws.

“Mom,” I groan, “Look, I don’t even know if I want to go to work today.”

I regret the words the moment they slip out. Talk about a can of worms.

“But why?” my mom looks absolutely horrified. Her lips form this perfect ‘o’, like a scary movie scream.

My last resort is to admit the real problem, or close to it. I have no choice, really.

I mumble, “Stan and I got in a fight.”

She looks beyond relieved, “Is that all? Darling, you’ve had plenty of fights with Stanley before.”

Mom says ‘Stanley’ like she’s saying ‘your brother’. It makes me feel guilty.

“I know, but…ma, I’m just not sure what to do, okay?”

“Always follow your heart, Bubbelah,” my mom pats my hand, “Even though it’s hard.”

Follow my heart?

Fuck, do I even have one?

* * *

 

At work, Stan’s all absorbed in some big project his dad gave him. Big project translates into checking sports stats and occasionally glancing at a big complicated machine to see if our volcano is close to blowing.

It never is.

But it means Stan has every opportunity to ignore me, and he does.

I’m not going to lie. For a second or two I imagine myself standing in all those girls’ shoes; the ones I used to get my rocks off and then pretended didn’t even exist. I barely let myself feel bad for those girls in the past, because hey, they were using me too. Now I wonder if they ever felt screwed over like this.

If they felt like being screwed by Kyle Broflovski meant being dropped like hotcakes.

‘Cause that’s how I feel about nearly fucking Stan Marsh.

…I wonder if any of them ever considered me friends.

Probably not. It’s a well known fact; Stan is the only friend I’ve ever needed.

Oh, sure. I had friends in college. Friends to study with, friends to drink with, and ‘friends’ to sleep with. I was never really close to any of them. Not like I am to Stan.

Maybe if I’d tried harder, something could have happened. But it’s like I said before; everything I could want in a person was waiting for me back home.

If not in Stan, than in Kenny. If not in Kenny, then in Cartman; although what character trait my subconscious might desire that Eric Cartman possesses is beyond me.

A daily dose of Anti-Semitism?

For my whole life, I’ve had a built in set of people who complement me in every way, shape, and form. It’s made it hard to click with people who don’t have the same thing in their lives, who don’t understand that they’re never going to fill certain spots or be certain things to me.

God, I’m such a douchebag.

Maybe if I spent less time psycho-analyzing myself and more time actually paying attention to other people, I would have seen this shit coming. Stan’s fingers are tapping against a keyboard a mile a minute, and it feels like every ‘tap’ is pressure building up the staircase of my spine. A tension headache the size of the Grand Canyon is preparing to erupt in my head if I don’t stop stressing, like, now.

I have to talk to him. I’m not playing this game of who can hold out longest. It’s ridiculous. It’s childish. It’s what we always do when we fight because we’re both total chicken shit. I don’t know what I’m more scared of; pissing Stan off so much that he never speaks to me for the rest of eternity, or him pissing me off so much that I refuse to speak to him again until it’s too late to salvage our friendship.

Either way, in any normal fight we have, we do this because we’re both selfish bastards who are terrified of losing each other. Of course there’s always a tiny guilt factor involved as well. I don’t like hurting Stan. But more so I don’t like being wrong, which brings us back to the whole selfish and arrogant bit.

Now I’m just worried that the reasoning about his side of the silent treatment might be different this time. We’ve been physical in fights before, but we’ve never _gotten_ physical, the way people mean when they’re making dirty innuendo. I’m pretty sure that doing so is the one thing that could put a damper on our super best friendship real fast.

I can’t breathe. I’m making myself dizzy with worrying so much, and all these thoughts are overloading my mind. Things would have been so much easier if I’d just stayed at school. My one professor urged me to apply for this internship in my field; something so big and prestigious that I guess I got scared. In South Park, I’ve always been something of a child prodigy; maybe not so much as my little brother, but hell, everyone knows I’m smart here. Just my name has always been enough to charm teachers and principals and potential employers.

Out in the real world, I was just another faceless drone. I didn’t want to get my hopes up and get rejected. When Stan offered me this deal with his dad, I figured it was the better choice. It was the _safer_ choice.

Now I’m wondering if choosing not to take a risk just fucked over everything. If I’d stayed at school, Stan never would have seen Wendy blow me. We never would have been in this mess.

I stare at my blank computer screen and wonder if I’m going to feel like this for the rest of my life.

* * *

 

Around lunchtime my phone buzzes.

It’s Kenny, who’s done his best trying to keep my mind off shit that ‘makes you a total downer, dude’, in his words. He asks if I want to come round for drinks at McVee’s tonight.

“Seriously, Kyle, its ladies’ night. Dollar shots and four dollar pitchers. It’s going to be a total vag-fest.”

“I’ll think about it, Kenny-“ my words die on my lips as Wendy waltzes in, glammed up in a form-fitting suit that I’m pretty sure was created for slutty secretary-roleplay and not anyone who works for my dad. The thought of my father checking out Wendy’s ass makes me want to puke.

The sight of her sidling up to Stan and blowing in his ear nearly brings vomit up my windpipe.

She says something that makes him turn towards me. Our eyes meet for the first time all day. I hate that it leaves me a little breathless. More so, I hate how much it stings when he turns away.

Wendy shakes her head and turns away from him to begin stalking up towards me. Oh, great. I grimace. What the hell did I do to light her fire?

When she reaches me, she smiles all soft and grossly in love and says, “Stan and I were going to grab a bite to eat with his dad. Do you want to come?”

“I- don’t think that’s a good idea,” I try my best to smile back, but it’s forced, and she knows it. Wendy’s not lacking in intelligence.

“Oh, come on, Kyle,” she coos, “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Wendy-“

She places a smooth hand on my arm, her eyes warm and liquid brown and inviting, “Please? For me?”

Okay. Girls are so not fair sometimes.

“Fine,” I relent.

Wendy grins in triumph and releases me, her glossy black hair shining in the fluorescent office light as she makes her way back to Stan to tell him the ‘good’ news. I’m fully prepared for him to glare at me when he hears, but all he does is toss a curious, slightly fearful look my way. I wonder if he’s worried I’ll tell Wendy what happened. I wonder how he could ever think that of me.

Randy’s ready to leave in about five minutes, a bright red coffee cup from Harbucks cradled in one arm.

“Wow, Mr. Marsh. I didn’t know you liked Harbucks,” Wendy says conversationally, “I had you pegged for a home brewed kind of man.”

“You know, Wendy,” Randy tilts his head to the side, his lips stretched into the biggest fucking shiteating grin I’ve ever seen, “Tweek makes the best coffee in town.”

“You go on ahead, babe. I’m going to drive my dad,” Stan bites his lip and looks away, and I’m the only person in the room who knows why.

I know that Randy’s filled his coffee cup in the back room with a quarter coffee and three quarters vodka, and that he’s going to either drive while drinking it, or let Stan do so.

Stan’s not ashamed of his dad’s minor alcoholism, not really. Randy doesn’t act like any more of douchebag drunk than he does sober, and Stan long ago decided that if his dad wanted to die of liver disease, so be it.

My best friend’s secret fear is being pitied. He knows if Wendy finds out, she’ll give him the ‘you poor thing’ routine, when really, this kind of thing doesn’t bother him. Even if maybe it should.

This is how Randy is. How he’s been since even before Stan took his first step. It’s a constant in his life. When Stan took his driving test, the only relief was that he could take the wheel while Randy sipped a martini in the passenger seat. The only time it really becomes a problem is when they get pulled over and Randy ends up interrogating the police officer about why he’s stepping all over their civil liberties.

Which has happened once or twice or three times.

I like that I know this about Stan, but Wendy doesn’t.

“Okay,” she shrugs and goes out to her car, hips swinging all the way. Randy decides he needs to add more vodka to his mix and disappears to the back room, leaving Stan and I standing awkwardly across from each other. We look like little boys who’ve been forced by our mother to play together, even though we don’t want to.

“Hey,” I say, my voice catching a little in my throat. I sound like a fucking frog.

“Hey,” he replies after a tense moment where I’m certain my heart just about stopped because he just _was not_ answering. I can tell he’s anxious by the way he sort of scuffs his shoe against the floor.

“The other night was a mistake,” he blurts at the same time I choke out, “Stan, the other night wasn’t so horrible. I might have even li- wait, mistake?”

Wow. That stings even more than him avoiding my gaze. Just- wow.

I push it aside, because I’m okay pretending it never happened if he is, really, I am. I’m pleading with my eyes, please, can’t we just pretend?

“Ignore that,” I say, because he’s not even looking at my eyes; he’s barely looking at me at all, “The other night never happened; fine. You can’t date Wendy again, Stan.”

“Why not?”

“She destroyed you.”

He opens his mouth to object, his cobalt eyes narrowed in something that doesn’t even resemble anger, but I cut him off, “You know it’s true. After high school you were devastated. Didn’t you want to marry her or some shit?”

“I-“

“You got all emo on me.”

“I-“

“You started reading that horrible poetry at the coffeehouse.”

“Ky-“

“If she breaks you again I don’t know if I can put you back together.”

That shuts him up. He squeezes his eyes shut, and I can follow the line of emotion running from the rigid set of his shoulders down to his clenched fist.

“Look,” he finally says, “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just get through lunch.”

“We have to talk about it sometime!”

“No,” Stan answers firmly, “We don’t.”

I want to say more, but that’s when Randy emerges from the back room, singing a song about vodka.

* * *

 

When I get home, mom’s in a mood. There’s no more ‘follow your heart’. There’s only yelling about how a bag of marshmallows fell out of the pantry onto the floor, spilling everywhere. Mom found out when she was in the middle of brewing me up a cup of hot cocoa. She had to pick it all up, which I’m sorry for, and maybe I didn’t clip the bag closed, but I lie and swear to her I did.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me, which bites, even if I am lying through my teeth.

“Kyle, I’m tired, and my back hurts, and I’m sick of you being so irresponsible!”

It’s not fair. It’s not. At school I could do whatever I wanted, and there was no one to yell at me when I fucked up. I thought it made me more mature, but all it’s really done is screw up my moral compass. I like to do things my way, and somehow that ruins everything for my mom. Even if ‘everything’ is as simple as keeping her kitchen clean.

“I was trying to do something nice for you, and all it resulted in was having to clean up another one of your messes.”

“Ma-“

“Good night, Kyle. I love you,” her voice is weary and laced with disappointment.

“Night,” I croak out, and I don’t want to know what my voice is laced with. It might show me I’m weaker than I like to think.

I climb up to my room, not at all ready to go to McVee’s with Kenny.

Lunch with Stan, Wendy, and Randy was horrible. Our conversations were clipped, Randy was borderline drunk, and I’m pretty sure Wendy was starting to suspect something. About Stan and I or just about Randy. Either way it sucked donkey balls.

My room is dark and quiet, but just as I go to switch on the light switch I hear breathing. Ike’s sleeping on my floor.

I turn on the lights and go to kick him lightly with my toes, “Get up, cunt muffin.”

“Geez,” he bolts awake, “Kyle, that hurt!”

“No it didn’t. I barely touched you.”

“Do you always kick people when they’re napping?”

“I do if they’re little boogers who won’t get the fuck out of my room.”

“I-“ Ike looks away, “It’s warmer in here. I think the heat in my room’s screwy.”

I soften. God, I know he only wants to spend time with me, and I’m such a self-absorbed asshole that I don’t even let him.

Right as I’m about to say something wise and elder brotherly like, my phone rings. Kenny. Of course.

“Ready, Brof?”

“Ken, I can’t. I just got back, and I’m tired, and Ike’s here-“

“So bring the squirt with you!” Kenny cheers.

“To McVee’s? Are you insane?”

“He can use Stan’s old fake id. They look like brothers.”

Eurgh. Thanks, Kenny. That adds a whole new dimension of creepiness to the night-in-the-tree-house-that-will-not-be-mentioned.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Ike stares up at me with his big, brown Bambi eyes, “Don’t think what’s a good idea?”

* * *

 

An hour later we’re sitting bar-side with glasses full of lager. Ike’s barely touched his, and I don’t blame him. He’s terrified he’s going to get busted by the cops; just like I was the first time I used a fake id.

“Get a load of that one,” Kenny points to some babe in a shirt that’s pretty much spilling out all of her assets, “She looks like she might have graduated college.”

“Banged a college professor, maybe. Kenny, you can’t judge how smart a girl is by her looks.”

“I think she’s a smoker. Because she’s smokin’.”

“That is- the corniest joke I’ve heard, ever.”

“Whatevs,” he makes this little ‘w’ sign with his fingers and rolls his eyes sarcastically, “Dude, Do you want to have a go first?”

He asks this, even though he’s already sitting at the edge of his seat. I can practically see the drool.

“No, man,” I clap his shoulder, “You go get ‘er.”

Like I could even fathom making idiotic small talk with some girl who may or may not give me a bj right now? Absolutely not.

“That is such a good answer,” Kenny flashes me a grin. Then his gaze falls on my little brother. His shoulders droop a little and he sighs, “C’mon, Ike.”

“What?” Ike glances up sharply. Kenny makes sure to plaster on a huge smile before Ike’s eyes reach his face.

He wraps an arm around my baby brother’s shoulders and murmurs, “I’m going to teach you the basics of worshipping at the altar of poon.”

“Gross!” is all I hear of Ike’s protests before Kenny’s whisked him away.

Poor Kenny. Having a teenager might help his case for all of a second, but then the girl’s going to want him to ditch the third wheel. I know Kenny won’t do that to Ike; thus the sigh and the drooping shoulders. He’s a good dude.

And seriously, Ike is like, seventeen. He needs to grow into his girl-chasing phase eventually. I’d rather Kenny usher him into it than me.

I glare at my beer and hope that maybe it will give me some brilliant idea on how to get Stan to talk to me again.

It doesn’t.

I don’t even watch as Kenny and my little brother get shot down by the hottest girl at the bar, more focused on another week of the super best friend fight coming to a close.

I am such a self-centered jerkoff. _  
_


	12. Bitches They Come They Go

_But I do know one thing though; bitches they come they go. Saturday through Sunday Monday, Monday through Sunday yo. Maybe I’ll love you one day, maybe we’ll someday grow. ‘Til then just sit your drunk ass on that fuckin’ runway, ho._

_-Superman by Eminem-_

* * *

I stare at my hands as they play over the antiquated keyboard that sits in the corner serving as my cubicle. It’s my own little piece of the world right here, my foxhole to cower in when I steadfastly refuse to face my problems head on. Even if I’m not really sure what the hell my problems are.

Yeah, man. Right here, I’m bulletproof.

“Kyle,” Randy clears his throat, slurring a little as he waves me over.

I remember when Randy was kind of my idol. Well, okay, he was never exactly the smartest guy around by way of common sense, but he’s a fucking geologist, a seismologist, a whatever-natural-catastrophe-you-choose-ologist. Volcanoes and earthquakes and tsunamis, man. And he used to be built like a bear. Compared to my balding, pudgy, _boring_ dad, he was like- superman.

Then, slowly, the years began to whittle him away, and maybe I grew up a few feet, out a few inches. Maybe I started to idolize Stan instead. Now, when I stand, Randy looks thin and gaunt; nothing like the burly man I remember.

I hover above him, my eyes picking out the spots in his receding hairline that look likely to go next.

“What’s up, Mr. Marsh?” I ask, stretching a little, because whether or not my chair has been approved by the Chiropractic Association of America or whatever, it still makes my muscles knot something terrible.

Randy sighs, “How many times have I told you to call me R-Man, son?”

So _not_ happening.

Steadily I say, “I can’t remember, Mr. Marsh.”

He crosses his arms, not fooled at all. See, he’s smart sometimes. He had to scrape up that college degree of his somehow.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” he intones, clapping a hand on my shoulder and trying but failing to focus on my eyes. No surprise there; he’s three sheets to the wind.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-“ he spits, then, less caustically corrects himself, “Yeah. See, here’s the thing- it’s about Stan.”

I stop myself from stiffening, wondering if the biggest ‘phobe in South Park somehow found out I groped his son. Or his son groped me. Whichever.

“O-kay,” I draw out the word, trying to breathe.

“Stan- and that bitch, Wendy.”

Immediately, my muscles relax; so much that I feel like I might melt into a puddle at Randy’s feet. I hadn’t realized how tense I was; then again, even mentioning Stan’s name these days winds me up like a spindle.

It’s been a week since our Brady Bunch lunch together, all cozy with the father, son, girlfriend, best friend scenario. Only I doubt the Brady Bunch consisted of an alcoholic, a possible queer, a syphilis infested ho, and someone as fucked up as me. Longest week of my life, man.

(Wendy probably doesn't have syphilis. That is mean and bitter of me.)

“Um, alright. What about the bi- Wendy?”

Randy gives me this knowing look, like he’s completely aware I’d like to take that slutbag by the hair and grind her face into the sidewalk.

Except not, because she’s a chick, and sexist or not, I don’t hit girls. My ma raised me right; chivalrous and chauvinistic. Depending on your point of view.

And hey, I don’t really have anything against Wendy as a person. I don’t want to mutilate her pretty face because I think she’s evil. I wouldn’t have let her snatch get anywhere near my face if I thought it was leaking pus- oh, hell.

That’s a lie; I probably would have.

But the point here is that I honestly have nothing against Wendy as an individual. We get along, eighty percent of the time, and she’s pretty cool for a girl.

Only she has noxious pheromones that turn Stan into some kind of freakish drone-like cabana boy.

It hasn’t become apparent yet, but I know- and Randy knows- and probably most of Park County knows that it _will_ happen. As their relationship progresses, the Stan Marsh we all know and love will begin to fade into a despicable, whipped cretin of a man. Stan’s hardwired that way when it comes to Wendy.

Sucks that she has to be a villain, but that’s how it is.

Plus, in the past agonizing week, she’s visited Every Single Day. Do you know how much dedication it takes for her to drive across town from my dad’s law offices to the Geologic Research Center? It’s nauseating.

Maybe I’m being a little harsh, but watching her rub up against Stan day after day after day with her pert little ass and her perky fucking boobs is pure torture.

Only I’m not entirely sure why.

I have an inkling.

One I’m not letting grow into something more, because Stan wants nothing to fucking do with me.

That might be exaggerating; we’d made an awkward peace at lunch the previous week, but it was the silent kind- and I wasn’t going to press it too hard, even though I’m the kind of guy that picks at his scabs instead of patiently waiting for them to fall off.

“Wendy, Wendy, Wendy. Girl’s a doll, really. Porcelain,” Randy breathes spicy, sour breath at me, “And she’s gonna fucking neuter my son. Do you want Stan neutered, Kyle?”

Before I can answer he says, “I don’t. _I_ want grandkids.”

He hiccups, one eye following me warily while the other stays completely still. It’s kind of freaking me out.

“Well-“ I begin diplomatically, ready to assure him that Wendy’s vagina is probably in working order and can somehow squeeze out a few tiny tots; although if Stan’s neutered the source of their paternal genetic material might be a little hazy.

“I don’t want to hear any of your pussyfootin’ protests, boy!” Randy exclaims, just loudly enough that I can tell out of the corner of my eyes that everyone else in the office is watching us.

Namely, Stan.

Randy must realize it too, because more quietly he asks, “How much do you value Stan’s balls, Kyle? How much do you value your _best friend’s_ balls?”

I take it back. Mr. Marsh is an idiot. Always has been.

“Fine,” I sigh, fully intending _never_ to tell him my stance on Stan’s testicles, “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“Do you, Kyle? Do you really?” he hisses theatrically, his eyes so wide I can see the tiny red veins scarring the whites of his eyes.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

Not like I wasn’t planning on it anyway. This is just the kick in the butt I needed. I think.

“Good,” Randy straightens, which is a relief. I didn’t think I could stand the toxic fumes he was exhaling any longer. I hope I don’t get halitosis like that when I drink, “There might be a raise in it for you, son.”

“You barely pay me minimum wage,” I point out, nonplussed.

“Are you complaining? In this economy?”

“No, sir,” I turn back to my mammoth computer screen, hoping he’ll _go away_.

“Right. Good hunting, m’boy.”

I ignore Randy’s confidential whisper in favor of staring at the blue glow of my ancient desktop.

Good hunting. Pssh, he makes it sound so easy.

* * *

 

Getting up the nerve to talk to Stan is…actually, it’s easy. I’ve been jonesing to do it all week; I just haven’t had any good reason other than provoking a flat out, possibly friendship-destroying confrontation about something he doesn’t want to confront. He probably doesn’t want to deal with this either, but it’s at Randy’s bequest and man, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

I basically shove by him at the copier, jostling all his paperwork out of his arms. Then I call him a douche when he doesn’t immediately move away from my bulldozer self. That pretty much escalates in an insult fight that nearly has me writing the words down on note cards, because man, I didn’t know either of our minds were that sick and twisted.

I hope I remember some of them next time I get drunk and start cursing out the bartender for refusing to serve me.

At the end of it, we’re both red faced with laughter, trying to figure out what Stan’s final anatomically incorrect bestiality remark was all about. He looks dumbstruck and happy, beaming like he can’t believe we still get along so well after the last month or so of constant infighting.

For a moment I falter, because I really, really hate making that smile fall off his face. I want to hold what I’m feeling right now in my hands, to feel the burn and witness the glow of it. Somehow, I think if maybe I could touch it, roll it between my fingers, I might be able to make it last forever.

But it’s just a feeling, and it passes.

I venture, “Gone to any secret raves lately?”

“Fuck. You,” Stan enunciates clearly, sarcasm dripping from the words, and his face darkens, “I said it was the last goddamned time.”

“I know. I just thought it might be a good idea to piss you off about something different before I really- piss you off,” I wince and shrug, allowing my hands to find their way into my pockets.

He eyes me suspiciously, “What are you planning on pissing me off about?”

“Your dad wants me to convince you to break it off with your girlfriend,” I can’t even bring myself to say her name, I feel so guilty. Hating Wendy in my mind is one thing, but actually bringing that hate out into the world is another. I’m not ready for that kind of karmic backlash.

I mean, I already made out with her boyfriend.

I can tell Stan is seething. I don’t blame him. If my friends helped my parents interfere in my sex life, I’d probably never forgive any of them.

“It’s none of your fucking business, Kyle. Back the hell off.”

“Hey, dude. It’s not me. It’s your _dad_ ,” I stress the word, completely pleased to have a reason to argue that’s not just my own selfishness.

“My dad’s a jerkoff,” Stan tells me, crossing his arms, “And you wouldn’t do this shit for him if you weren’t so- so, I don’t know- o _bsessed_ with me.”

“Obsessed?” I squeak, astonished. I feel like my windpipe has closed off.

He gestures helplessly, “What else am I supposed to think when you’re so damned invested in my life?”

One thing you should know about me: I get over shock relatively quickly when it comes to my own well being. I don’t take very well to being… _wounded_.

So instead of gaping like a fish striving for air, I suck in a breath and get angry. Really angry. I’m about to let loose on Stan, to start screaming about his Super Best Friend molesting ways in front of the entire office.

The words are spilling over my lips.

And are completely drowned out by Wendy crying, “Stan!” and throwing her arms around him from behind. She’s pressed flush against his back, her cleavage spilling out the front of her purple blouse, out of her lacy demi bra. Her legs are aligned with his, and man do they look miles high from those towering stilettos she’s got on.

A change goes over Stan’s face. It’s like…he forgets about me completely.

It fucking hurts.

“Stan,” I attempt to draw his attention back to me, to force him to look somewhere other than her, “Dude, we still have to talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” Wendy chirps, ever ready to be a helpful mediator.

“Work stuff,” I reply, shame coloring the back of my neck, the tips of my ears, “Nothing too interesting.”

“Yeah,” Stan spits, “It’s so boring that we really _don’t_ have to talk about it at all.”

“I’m supposed to meet Kenny at McVee’s soon. Why don’t you guys come with me? Get a pint, some wings?” I suggest, eager to have Wendy along for the ride if it means somehow soothing Stan’s ego into listening.

Even if my own ego isn’t ready to be soothed at all. Obsessed? Where the fuck did he pull that from?

“Nah, we’re trying this new thing. No beer at noon, right Stan?” Wendy laughs and pats his stomach, her arms still snaked around him, “Trying to keep down the belly.”

He blanches, and then nods. Already she’s stealing away pieces of him. I wonder if this is where the grown up version of him is coming from; from her, from her parasitic nature.

“Right,” he says, barely daring to glance at me, “We can’t all be as carefree as you are. Anyway, we have reservations in town.”

Reservations? For _lunch_?

It doesn’t even make sense, seeing Stan live a life that isn’t like the one I’m living. The only reason I am the way I am is because he made me. All I ever did was strive to be like him, my hero, my best fucking friend. I didn’t want him to leave me behind.

That’s just what he’s doing anyway. He thinks I’m obsessed with him.

He’s going to be with her, with Wendy. My heart’s throbbing, aching, wanting him…to want me.

Wanting him to not want her.

Maybe I am fucking obsessed, because I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. I mean, how do you watch something like this? How do you watch somebody give themselves so completely to another person, when you wish so badly that person was you?

And God, when you already belong to them, what happens to you? Do you just dissolve? Cease to exist?

I need to know, because that’s what’s going to happen to me.

These thoughts, they’re hitting me out of left field, one after another as I watch Wendy and Stan. I’m not even sure if I want Stan to give himself over to me, I just know the thought flickers through my mind, along with a zillion others. I’m offended because he called me obsessed when Kenny told me he’s the one who’s been checking me out, he’s the one who fucking kissed me. And I’m mad, because he’s just so damned stupid. He does this over and over again, lets Wendy disassemble him and recreate him however she fucking wants him.

And I’m confused, because there’s this part of me that feels like I am completely and totally fanatical about figuring Stan out, and I don’t know what that means. I hate not knowing what things mean.

Then, last, I’m scared. Because I do know, what all of this means, deep down. I know that it’s not natural to want your best male friend to want you. But I don’t know how to deal with it.

I glare at him. He stares back for a moment, and then lowers his eyes, like a submissive dog. Fuck him. Just- _fuck_ him.

Loudly, I announce, “I’m going to lunch.”

* * *

 

“I told you,” I groan, “I invited him and he shot me down.”

“For a chick. I can’t believe he ditched us to go to some hoity toity restaurant with a chick,” Kenny muses, staring at his empty plate like he’s willing his sandwich to reappear.

“Like you wouldn’t,” I rebuke him, knowing that Kenny will pretty much turn tricks just for the promise of sex.

“Not for Wendy. She’s frigid. No way will she put out when she’s got to get back to the office.”

“She’s never acted very frigid towards me.”

“That’s because you were like, a bunny rabbit. You were- the thrill of the chase. Stan’s easy prey. She knows she’s got him wrapped around her little finger, so she doesn’t need sex to keep him in thrall.”

“You make her sound like a succubus, Kenny.”

“She is. Stan’s such a whore, dude,” Kenny glares through his beer glass, “He can have anyone. But Wendy like, seduced him into monogamy. Thousands of times! She’s got to have some kind of voodoo power. Because otherwise, he could have anybody. He could have _you,_ Kyle.”

“He can’t have anyone.”

I look away. Because maybe he can’t have anyone, but I’m starting to think that yeah, he could have me.

“Yeah. He could,” Kenny insists, “I will never understand how he gets more pussy than the rest of us put together.”

“Two words. Natural charisma.”

“Nah, fuck, that can’t be it. I have charisma, and chicks ain’t climbing all over me.”

I raise an eyebrow, saying nothing.

Kenny gets it though. He snorts, “Blow me,” into his beer.

“He thinks I’m obsessed with him,” I say quietly.

“So?” Kenny snorts, “You are.”

“Not helping.”

“What does it even matter? He’s obsessed with you. Fucking infatuated, man. I bet he’s stressing right now over your little bitch fight, so much that even if Wendy decides to go in for a quickie he probably won’t be able to get it up.”

“You think?”

He scoffs, “No, are you kidding? With those C cups, he’ll have no trouble springing a woody. Anyway, why do you even want that to happen? I thought you were still in denial, my friend.”

“Maybe not so much,” I admit, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Like that’s fucking news. I’ll tell you what to do, since for all those brains you always seems so lost,” Kenny rolls his eyes, obviously mortified by how moronic I supposedly am, “You fight.”

“I- fight?”

“Yes. You hunker the hell down and battle it out. Use whatever devious means are necessary until he’s naked and in your bed.”

The image, which would have disgusted me a month ago, doesn’t actually sound so bad.

“But-“

“No buts. God, man. Do you know how lucky you are? You’ve had Stan- your whole life, you’ve had Stan. No one gets another person their whole fucking life, but you,” he reaches across the tabletop and jabs me in the chest, “do.”

“But I’m not even sure if I want him.”

“Of course you want him,” Kenny throws me a warning look when I begin to protest, “At the very least you want to fuck him. So do it, and if that gets it out of your system, good on you. If not, well, deal with that shit when it happens.”

“If it happens. Even if Stan wants to ‘fuck me’,” I emphasize with dejected air quotes, “Perfect, golden Stan can’t deal with his stupid feelings.”

“Aw, shit. Feelings? Are we going to start talking about those now? ‘Cause I’m so out of here if you start spouting poetry. Stan’s the one who does that- not you. So put a damper on all your damned insecurities and just- cowboy up.”

He has a point.

He knows it too, because he concludes, “Good, I’m glad that’s over with. I’m sick of talking about a sex life that isn’t mine.”

* * *

 

The entire drive back to the office, I resent all the fields and houses I pass. Then I realize I shouldn’t hate on South Park for putting me in this position; it’s not the town’s fault. It’s just a strip of land covered in snow, and unless we’re having a repeat of that whole toxic waste dump in Stark’s Pond with like, hallucinogens or something, I doubt the place fostered all these _feelings_.

I think Kenny’s kind of ahead of the game though, with the whole screw his brains out thing. I really just want to talk to Stan. I want closure, for the kiss, and I want to be a good friend and keep him from repeating his history with Wendy.

Plus, yeah, I might want to screw his brains out. Talking just comes first.

I’ve got to do what Kenny said, and be devious. I actually think I even have an idea, something that will force Stan to talk to me. It’s kind of overly dramatic and idiotic, but that’s the kind of thing that usually goes over well ‘round these parts.

At most, I’ll know where we stand.

When I get back to the office, I see he’s already there. I guess Kenny was right; no freebies in the backseat of the Marsh mobile today.

On my desk, there’s an official looking envelope, and I snatch it up. It’ll work just fine.

Stan ducks his head when he sees me coming, but I don’t care. I cross my arms, steel myself, and say, “We have to talk. Now.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” he grits out, “I’m not having this discussion-“

I cut him off. I’m devious. I’m ruthless.

I throw the envelope down on his desk, “I’m accepting a job offer in DC.” _  
_


	13. The Last Contagious Victim Of This Plague Between Us

_You’re cold with disappointment while I’m drowning in the next room; the last contagious victim of this plague between us. I’m sick with apprehension, I’m crippled from exhaustion, and I dread the moment when you finally come to kill me. This is the first (thing I remember), now it’s the last (thing left on my mind). Afraid of the dark (do you hear me whisper?), an empty heart (replaced with paranoia). Where do we go (life’s temporary) after we’re gone (like New Year’s resolutions)? Why is this hard (do you recognize me)? I know I’m wrong (but I can’t help believin’).  
_

_-Stockholm Syndrome by Blink 182-_

* * *

 

 “You’re what?”

 “Accepting a job,” I say slowly, letting the idea sink in.

 “In-“

“In DC.”

“Washington DC?”

“No, with DC Comics. Yes, Washington DC, doofus.”

There’s no job. Let me clarify that right now. Well, there is a job. The envelope holds the offer. But it’s for some telemarketing service I never would be caught dead at anyway. I turned them down over a month ago. Lucky me, I’m good at bluffing.

“You can’t leave,” Stan bites his lip, his skin paling, “That’s not-that’s not what I want, dude.”

“Then what do you want Stan? I can’t figure it out. I’m sick of second guessing myself, pretending my best friend actually wants to be my best friend when you can barely even look at me.”

“Kyle-“

“You have to talk to me,” my voice cracks a little, “you just- you have to.”

“Fine. We’ll talk,” he squeaks, panicking, “Kyle, look at me.”

I do. His cobalt eyes are bright, intense, burning. It’s like he can see right into me, right through me to the wall behind my back, where an old world map stands faded and curling at the edges. I know the lines of it in my mind, the latitude and longitude as familiar to me as my friendship with Stan used to be. Now I feel like an explorer, setting off to sail the ocean blue, dragons and sea monsters beckoning at every turn.

“You kissed me,” I accuse him, “You kissed me, and then you said it was a mistake, and then you refused to acknowledge my existence, like I was some kind of crazy person on the street.”

“I know. I’m- look, I had my reasons, okay?”

Lame. So. Fucking. Lame.

“Then explain them to me! Because I don’t get it. I don’t get how I’ve known you forever, but I can’t figure out a damned thing you’re thinking. First raves, then Wendy, and then- the treehouse, and- it’s like you’re a stranger, now.”

“Don’t say that, Kyle. We’re best friends. Super best friends.”

This conversation is draining him, stealing the life from his lungs, from his heart. And it’s visible. I can see the toll it’s taking on him to work up the courage to say what he needs to say, because as much as I hero worship Stan I know that courage is not something he has in abundance. I’ve always been the one he’s depended on to venture into the dark basement for extra fruit juice when we were toddlers, to approach the girls he liked in elementary school, to take his place in the school play when we were in junior high, and to talk to teachers who thought he was a dumb jock in high school.

I’ve always been his safety net, the one who tests the waters and makes sure something’s safe to do before he tries it. If not me then Kenny, if not Kenny, then Cartman. Before he became a partier, a heart breaker; hell, before he even lost his fear of the dark, he had us to tell him everything was okay. He had me. Maybe that changed in college, maybe he gained confidence, but not for this.

This is brand spanking new territory, and once again he just doesn’t know how to proceed.

I forge on, undaunted, “Then why the hell have you been acting like such a complete cock muncher lately?”

He blinks, and I know he wants to comment on my choice of curses, but instead he says, “Because…maybe you’ve been acting like a stranger too.”

“I- no, I have not,” I protest, not sure where Stan scrapes up all these weird thoughts of his, but positive that I’m not going to let him go until he explains _everything_ to me. This is my last wild card, this is the only chance I’m going to get to keep him from lording over me like the patron saint of all things good and right.

“You have too,” he mumbles, glancing away, towards his desk with its framed picture of Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and I in high school, lying on the hood of Stan’s first car, red faced and exhausted from spending hours trying to dig it out of the Marsh’s driveway. My curls are tangled around my eyes, my ears, in that picture, and Stan’s lying across me with a smile so bright he could blind the whole wide world.

“How?”

“You have a fucking tattoo that matches another guy, Kyle.”

Which is ironic, considering I’m oh-so- _obsessed_ with him.

“That’s just an excuse. One you’ve used for too long now.”

“Fine. Ever since you’ve come home, we’ve done nothing but party. We go to the movies, and oh shit- there’s a party. We go out to dinner and- fuck man, gotta meet Kenny at the bar. You sleep in until three in the afternoon on weekends like some kind of frat brother, refuse to do anything remotely ambitious, like I don’t know, save up enough to get an apartment with me? You ignore Ike, even though the kid idolizes you, and I’ve heard your mom on the phone with mine more times than I can count, complaining.”

My face is ashen; it must be. I feel like all my blood has fled my body, like these baseless accusations have stolen my breath away.

Except they’re not baseless; everything he’s said is true. And it sucks, because becoming the person I am wasn’t a choice, exactly.

Well I guess it was, if you think that everything’s a choice. We just aren’t conscious of it.

Still, the whole cycle of getting drunk and acting like an asshole wasn’t like, a goal in my life. It just sort of happened. Just like the part where I started thinking it was okay. The part where being irresponsible required me to give nothing of myself in return, but now maybe I’ve given everything I had without realizing it.

Because Stan is everything, to me.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” I reply, my voice weak, and I know I’m echoing an earlier conversation, “I thought you liked to party all the time.”

“I did- but Kyle, when I came home, it was you I missed. I partied at school- I didn’t get to movie marathon with my best friend, or any of the other stuff we used to do. We barely even had conversations, between all the keg stands and the girls.”

My anger flares up. I feel like I’m getting an intervention for alcoholism or sexaholism or ignoring-my-best-friend-ism. Or maybe all three.

“You could have just said something, Stan. It’s not like I’m drunk or screwing twenty four seven.”

“I know that- I’m not accusing you of that. I guess…I guess what I’m accusing you of is- fuck, neglecting me?”

Or maybe just the one. Ignoring-my-best-friend-ism it is.

“I-“ my voice catches, “I didn’t know.”

I truly didn’t. He’s always on my mind, so how can I possibly have neglected him?

“And that’s not the worst part of it, Ky,” Stan won’t meet my eyes now, at all, but the words are tumbling from his mouth faster and faster, “The more I felt like you were leaving me behind, the more I- wanted you? Somewhere along the way, when I was chasing after you from party to party, I started getting jealous. Of the girls. Of Kenny. And I didn’t think it was that big a deal until- until I walked in on you and Wendy. When I first walked in that room, I didn’t know what I was seeing, I was so hosed. When it sunk in, when I realized that I hadn’t just seen you cum, but that I’d…liked it, it was- I don’t want to say enlightening because that’s wrong on so many levels, but it made me think.”

“About sex?” I ventured, trying to keep up with everything he was saying, even if it felt impossible. I was so preoccupied with being annoyed that he thought I neglected him and flattered that he liked my dick that I barely could catch up to his next words, which I guess is getting to be a fault of mine.

“Not just that,” he says, his voice vulnerable, “About everything. Kyle, I’m not impulsive, and I never have been. That’s you- you’re passionate and outspoken and smart, and you always know the right move to make. And maybe I’m shallow, because that wasn’t such a big deal when you were just my dorky high school buddy, but now you’re- you, and I didn’t know what to do. If I let what I’ve been feeling the past few weeks build up, take momentum, I probably would have ended up jumping you in a broom closet.”

“Didn’t you think I would like that?” I snap before the words reach my brain, and I can’t figure out where exactly they came from. Stan blushes a little, but it doesn’t stop his tirade.

“It still didn’t work. I tried to jump you in the treehouse,” he darkens, “I hooked up with Wendy because she’s safe. She’s going to live this boring, happy little life, and I’m okay living it with her.”

“What about me?” the words wrench from my throat.

“You have a different path- I’ve known, since I was little I’ve known that you’re going to do something great. You devote yourself to whatever you do- right now it’s being here, living la vida loca or whatever, but that’ll change soon, and someday you’re going to be a fantastic- I don’t even know. Politician? Lawyer? Something- god,” Stan runs a hand through his hair, “You’ve got this spark, and you burn, and everything around you burns with you, and that’s not part of the future I want.”

I have my own path? That’s news to me. I’ve always thought my path is Stan’s- if I let myself think about it, that’s probably the reason why I haven’t figured out what I want to do with my future, because I’m waiting to see what he’ll do, where he’ll go. It’s stupid and idiotic, and maybe freakishly sentimental, but it’s true.

He gestures to the picture on his desk and says, “It’s funny; out of the four of us everyone always said I was the special one. Turns out, I’m the typical white picket fence three kids and a dog kind of guy.”

“If what you’re saying is true,” I sound the words out slowly, tasting them, trying to discern the flavor of this moment on my tongue; all the emotions swirling around are bittersweet and too much to handle, “Then I should go to DC? I should let you live that boring, happy little life with Wendy?”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and then guiltily checks to see if anyone’s heard. They haven’t, “You can’t leave. I- the way I feel about you is- I fucked up, okay? I handled this wrong. Sure, I want to take the safe route, but dude, what I’ve been trying to work up to is- if you go away, I’ll never be happy.”

It sucks, wanting to crawl out of your own skin. Between making him feel neglected and miserable, I officially am equivalent to pond scum.

“And stop right there,” I hold up a hand, unable to take the itchy, uncomfortable feeling any longer, “I don’t need a monologue, man, and I’m not going to DC. Just fucking apologize and get it over with.”

“I-“ Stan blinks, maybe wondering if it’s really this easy, “I’m sorry.”

“Well…duh.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, this freeing, happy sound, “You are such a dick.”

“You know you love it,” I whisper in his ear, more than pleased to see the way his face reddens.

He stutters out, “I-I still don’t know. If I can handle being- with another guy. I don’t know if I can throw away safe and boring for you, especially not if I’m going to live in your shadow.”

“Stan, you’ve never fucking been in my shadow. I never meant to make you feel that way, and when it comes to us- if you want there to be an ‘us’- we can take it slow. I’m not exactly ready to move fast.”

“Wait- you were the one who called me out to talk about all this shit, and now you don’t know if you want in my pants or not?”

“I-“

“You _so_ want in my pants.”

Suddenly the roles are reversed. The gentle teasing I’d done has given way to something more predatory, and here, in our office full of seismographic equipment and antiquated computers, I feel like an earthquake’s approaching. And no, that was not an I-think-Stan-Marsh-is-about-to-rock-my-world joke.

The fact that I even considered it might be proves I spend way too much time around Kenny.

I digress.

“You tricked me,” Stan murmurs, taking a step closer to me. I guess he’s decided the waters are monster-free, “You lied about DC to force me to talk to you.”

“Oh god,” I choke out a laugh, but it’s strangely unconvincing, “You’re not going to call me a naughty boy now, are you?”

“Maybe,” he inclines his head to the side, examining me. I can’t believe the way the atmosphere has thickened. Everything’s the same; the mid-afternoon sun streaming in the windows, the clack clack of keyboards all around us, and the slate gray of the walls are all the same. But something between Stan and I has shifted, turned cutting and electric. He’s redrawing those latitude and longitude lines between us, even if he doesn’t know which side of the lines we’ll land on.

“I- uh, I thought you weren’t sure if you were ready to be with me?”

Stan shrugs, and sing songs softly, “Can’t a guy change his mind?”

No. No, absolutely a guy cannot. Especially not if that guy is Stan Marsh. He never makes big decisions this quickly, not without writing a dozen crappy songs and poems about it first.

I’m the one panicking now.

His finger curls around one of my belt loops, tugging me in close. His knuckle grazes skin through the cotton of my shirt, and fuck. He should not have this affect on me, but he does.

Would it honestly be so bad to just give in?


	14. Yeah, I Love My Alcohol

_Yeah, I love my alcohol. What more can I say? I can’t go nowhere, unless you’re by my side. I gotta have you here, I said right here by my side. I can’t roam the town, unless you’re by my side. I gotta have you around, right here by my side. So, where’s my moonshine?_

_-Moonshine by Akon ft. Savage-_

* * *

 

“Dude,” Stan takes a step back, “You should see your face. You look like you’re going to explode. Breathe. I’m just fucking with you.”

“That was cruel.”

“That was _revenge_. DC my ass.”

“You- but- you said-“ I find my voice again, and state flatly, “You’re evil.”

“Pay. Back,” he enunciates, relishing the words.

“I’m going to pay Cartman to shank you, and then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t,” I hate how unthreatened he looks. I’m obviously losing my touch when it comes to being intimidating. I guess that’s what happens when you spew warnings of imminent annihilation to a fat whale every other minute and never deliver.

Fucking Cartman. That was probably his plan all along; make me look like a neutered, pansy ass jerk who doesn’t make good on his death threats.

Stan grins, and says in the most casual, conversational tone I’ve ever heard, “Not if you want to fuck me, anyway.”

“I- don’t,” I can feel red creeping up my neck, tinting my ears, “Didn’t we just cover this?”

It’s embarrassing, because the idea of ‘fucking him’ is so much more intimate than just ‘getting in his pants’ like he teased before. My mind’s flashing images of him, sprawled out on my bed, completely under my control, and in my imagination he’s making noises that leave me half hard in the middle of the brightly lit office. I shift uncomfortably.

“Come on, Kyle,” Stan leers, and I can’t tell if he knows what’s going on in my brain right now, but the paranoid part of me is screaming that he must, that he’s the biggest fucking cocktease, “I’m irresistible.”

“You’re an asshole, is what you are,” I grumble. I want to say more, but before I can, Randy approaches. His footsteps thud heavily against the threadbare carpet of the Geologic Center, and for once his posture is ramrod straight. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him look so…sober.

I nudge Stan, who’s about to launch into some colorful descriptions of why he’s so irresistible, I think based on the Cheshire Cat grin twisting his lips. He turns, and immediately mellows.

“Stan,” Randy says quietly, giving me a polite nod, “I- just got a call from your mom. She…uh, your sister’s visiting.”

Stan pales, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

I don’t know if he’s more frightened by the prospect of Shelley being hurt somehow or the idea of her just plain visiting. He’s always had an irrational- well, no, that’s not entirely fair. His fear of his older sister is one hundred percent rational, in my book. The woman’s a she-demon.

“Something,” Randy echoed faintly, “I never thought- not ever, that I’d see this day.”

“…You’re freakin’ me out, Dad.”

Stan’s eyebrows knit together, and even though Randy doesn’t have the stink of alcohol hanging around him, I can tell he’s checking to see if his father’s on the bottle.

I’m betting on drugs; Randy’s eyes are wide and dream-like.

“Stan,” Randy takes a deep breath, carding a hand through his thick, dark hair, “Your sister’s getting married.”

“She- what? Who in their right minds would marry _her_?” Stan squeaks out, his face paling. I know what he’s imagining. Shelley’s boyfriends have never been the most, uh, ambitious bunch. Think tattoos and facial piercings and a penchant for beating up her ‘annoying’ little brother on a whim.

“I have absolutely no idea. It’s a miracle,” Randy declares, the dreamscape of his face clearing, brightening. He’s delighted, “So don’t you dare jinx it, boy.”

“Um. Okay.”

I watch Stan’s dad pat him heartily on the back and then waltz away. Stan turns back to me and hisses, “Dude. Just- dude. This guy has got to be a _total freak_.”

I bite my lip and try my best to look supportive and nothing at all like I’m inwardly cracking up, “I don’t know, man. Shelley’s been away a long time. Maybe she’s changed. Maybe she’s like, fucking Pollyanna now.”

It’s really hard to keep from snorting.

“No. No, no, no, no. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Miracles happen.”

“Obviously, if someone wants to marry Shelley.”

“You know you’re going to have to at least _pretend_ to be happy for her, right?”

“I am happy for her,” Stan says slowly. Then he bites his lip and glances away, like he’s ashamed of his reaction, like I might persecute him for it.

I clap my hand on his shoulder and say, “Dude, I know. I was just fucking with you, okay?”

The subtle shift in his expression lets me know my apology’s been accepted, but there still something off about the way his eyebrows are furrowed.

“D’you-“ Stan takes a deep breath and looks away, his gaze going so distant he could be seeing all the way to Sri Lanka. Then, abruptly, his cobalt eyes snap back to mine, and he looks stronger, more certain, “Do you want to come to my place?”

“What for?”

Normally, I’d agree without even hesitating. Before all our arguments, back at the beginning of this summer, I’d jump at every chance I could get to hang out with Stan. Now, it’s like I’m looking for loopholes and escape clauses in our relationship, searching for all the different ways he could abandon me and trying to beat him to the punch.

“I don’t know,” he takes a step closer, and he’s in my space for the umpteenth time that day, sucking all the air from my lungs just with his nearness, “Do I really need a reason?”

“You-,” I can’t help my sharp inhalation when his fingers brush down the side of my arm, “-said I was obsessed with you.”

Stan smiles, and it’s like he has a secret, one I’m dying to know, “I think I was projecting. I think I’m a little obsessed with _you_.”

Yeah, well. I mean how can I argue with that?

* * *

 

Stan’s brand new apartment in North Park has a huge picture window facing the mountains and is pretty much prime real estate.

If Kenny sees it, he’s going to flip. I know he resents a lot of the things Stan and I have, like the fact that our parents pretty much funded our educations up until now. Hell, mine would pay out for grad school in a second, whereas if Kenny decides to go he’ll have to prostitute himself for cash, or at the very least, fight the awful economy for a real job.

Still, as far as cribs go, it’s nice. Pinewood floors, a fireplace…it would be incredibly classy if it wasn’t in various states of disorder. Half of Stan’s boxes are still unpacked, and the floor is covered with newspaper wrappings.

He grabs me a beer from the fridge, which seems to only be stocked with PBR and a single grapefruit. I flip the tab, listening to this hiss of expelled air, sucking golden droplets off my fingertips. Stan does the same, and it hits me that it’s just us. We’re here, miles from South Park, miles from anyone who knows who we are or what our history is.

“So like…you bought this place for you and- Wendy?” my lips stumble over her name, because I’m still not sure where we stand with all of this, with me and him, with him and her. Everything’s muddled, and I wish I could make the lines clearer.

“Nah. I just- needed to get out of the house,” he said apologetically, taking a sip, “I was going to ask you to split the rent, and then- well, y’know.”

I’m still not sure I do know, actually, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to start a fight when we’re finally getting to a good place.

Maybe Stan’s getting be a mind reader, because he turns to me, and says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done all this, but…haven’t you ever felt- I don’t’ know. Angry and confused for days on end. Like maybe it would never stop?”

“All the time,” I admit easily, but I don’t add that I’m serious. Lately anger and confusion have been my modus operandi.

“I like being out here. I thought maybe the distance from South Park and Denver would help me gain perspective, but it hasn’t. It’s just made me appreciate the city lights more.”

“Dude,” I snort, “You’re so emo.”

“Am not,” he touches the back of my neck, lightly, like he’s afraid I might panic and run. It’s weird, because this isn’t how I usually do this. Just a few sips of alcohol involved, no uncontrollable lust, just tenderness.

The kind of thing we reserve for people who matter.

He shivers and murmurs my name, like it’s something sacred, like it’s a magic spell.

I lean back into his touch, and he mumbles, breath hot in my ear, “I didn’t- invite you over for this. Not really. I just wanted to celebrate.”

Turning to face him, I loop my fingers in his pockets and say, “I can think of a few really good ways to celebrate.”

“But you,” he pauses, mulls over his words, “You said that you weren’t sure and-“

“Shut up,” I look into his eyes, and I wonder what he can see. If he can see all the way to my core, or like me, he can only see his own reflection. Mine’s swimming there in cobalt blue, thrown back like a funhouse image. I want to see past it, see deep inside him, but it feels like the more involved I get with Stan, the harder it’s become to read him.

It’s supposed to be the opposite, easier, I think. But I’m not sure that if it were easier I would want it so much.

“I-“

“Seriously, shut it,” I warn, “I want...Yeah, I’m worried. This could be a big mistake. But…it’s me. I can over-think this until kingdom come or I can just test it out and see if I like it. A controlled experiment, or whatever.”

His voice is hushed as he says, “This won’t change anything. I’m still not going to party. I want to try something new, something different. I want to try growing up.”

“Y’know, I can live with that. As long as something different involves me.”

He chuckles, “It might.”

When he kisses me, it’s soft at first, warmth spreading from my mouth to my limbs to my extremities, heating me from the inside out. He’s delicate, reverent, moving from my lips to my cheeks to my eyelashes. His breath is a song, a rhythm, a pulse. It beat-boxes its way into my ears and resonates until my nerves are buzzing.

Something changes, electricity in the air, turning our movements frenzied. I have a single moment of clarity when Stan drags me down to the floor.

I’m about to christen Stan’s new apartment with boisterous sex on top of dirty ass newspaper. That’s all I can think before he reclaims my mouth, runs his fingers up the ladder of my spine, and presses his hips into mine, hard.

I said I didn't want to move fast, but I do. I can't seem to stop. And Stan, for all our carefully talked out discussion this afternoon, he doesn't seem able to either.

When it’s over, the ghost of whispered obscenities and moans linger in the air as Stan’s breathing steadies and he begins to drift off. He sighs contentedly, eyes flickering closed. But me, I’m wide awake.

After you cum, you just need something to hold on to. Like if you don’t cling to something, the whole world might fly away. Except I don’t want to grab on to Stan. I don’t want to snuggle, or anything nearly so gay.

I mean, maybe I do, a little. Maybe I want to crawl beneath Stan’s skin and hide there, so I can feel his veins and his organs and his skin thrum in time with mine, but I’m scared of it. Of what it means.

So as soon as I’m certain he’s asleep, I slide off the floor and grab my boxers, my jeans, ignoring the newsprint marks ingrained on my skin. I shimmy into the denim, cold against my flesh from lying out on the wooden floor.

For a second I stand there, the lights of North Park outlining my silhouette as I hover over him, as I watch the rise and fall of his chest.

Then, I leave.


	15. Nothing But Time And A Face That You Lose

_God that was strange to see you again. Introduced by a friend of a friend. Smiled and said ‘yes I think we’ve met before’ and in that instant it started to pour. Captured a taxi despite all the rain. We drove in silence across Point Champlain. And all of that time you thought I was sad, I was trying to remember your name. This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin. Tried to reach deep but you couldn’t get in. Now you’re outside me, you see all the beauty. Repent all your sins. It’s nothing but time and a face that you lose; I chose to feel it but you couldn’t choose. I’ll write you a postcard, I’ll send you the news from a house down the road from real love…_

_-Your Ex Lover Is Dead by Stars-_

* * *

 

“You left? You fucked Stan’s brains out and then you _left_?” Kenny practically screeches over the phone.

I wince against the grating sound of his voice, venturing, “Maybe?”

“I thought we were trying to reinstate a diplomatic relationship between you and the SBF, not completely destroy all possibility of ever putting you in the same room together again. Kyle, I need you two to be in the same room sometimes!”

“It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

“Oh, it’s every bit as bad as I’m making it out to be, and worse. This is Stan Marsh we’re talking about. And you essentially just treated him like a one night stand.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I say hastily.

“Then what exactly was it like? Did you have a pressing doctor’s appointment? Maybe you needed to get your _psychosis_ checked out?”

“Kenny,” I sigh, knowing that there’s no reasoning with him when he’s gotten this worked up. Not that I have the moral high ground here. Or ever, it seems.

“No, don’t even try to cute-talk your way out of this one. Do you know what you’re putting me through? How is this even going to work? Is there going to be a custody battle? Am I going to have Stan on weekdays and you on weekends, or-“

“You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely not. Dramatic will be when I finally end up having to slam your dick in a fucking drawer to make you realize how idiotic you’re being. And let me tell you, we’re swiftly approaching that stage, buster.”

I grimace, deciding immediately to bar Kenny admittance to the Center and any other office situation containing a gauntlet of cabinets, drawers, and other dangerous weaponry. Like staplers.

Because let me tell you, this boy does not make threats idly.

“It wasn’t even on purpose,” I protest, trying to save my manhood from possible _crushing,_ “I just- I must’ve panicked.”

“Okay,” Kenny’s voice mellows out, “Did you text him?”

“Text him what?” I ask blankly.

“I don’t fucking know, Kyle. Didn’t it occur to you to lie, and say you had to be somewhere, and that’s why you just up and left with nary a word?”

“Did you just say nary?”

“Shut the fuck up. I am so seriously right now, it’s not even remotely funny. You are going to fix this, and you are going to fix it by tonight.”

“Why?” I ask reluctantly, “What’s tonight?”

“Did you forget? We’re supposed to go to Denver with Bebe, Red, and Wendy. And you know, _Stan_. Whom you treated like some kind of- cum dumpster. I don’t even know why I put up with your shit, Broflovski.”

Kenny slams down the phone, which obviously isn’t the best idea because it’s his cell. I can hear him cursing as some of the cheap plastic breaks before he manages to actually hang up.

I still say he’s being intensely overdramatic. What I did is not that bad.

Is it?

I jot off a text to Stan. Just in case.

I never do get a response.

* * *

 

Going out with Wendy and her roommates was not my idea. Even after our talk, my feelings for the girl have been lukewarm at best, and now I’m downright conflicted. Every time I try to look her n the eyes, I see Stan, naked, writhing. Wanting.

I can still feel his cum on my hand.

It doesn’t help that Stan’s sitting comfortably at my side, talking about some shit to Bebe like the previous night never even happened. I want to ask if he got my text, but I don’t want to risk sounding like a total girl. He doesn’t seem fussed about any of it; smiling at me occasionally. If the expression is a little more distant, a little more cold than usual, I try not to let it get to me.

Kenny, on the other hand, has taken it upon himself to be personally affronted on Stan’s behalf. He’s barely even speaking to me, instead choosing to hang all over Bebe in hopes that she might just spill out of her shirt. I can’t really blame him. The thing she’s wearing hardly deserves the title of ‘shirt’. I can see her fucking nipples through the thin material, and they’re the only part of her breasts that aren’t openly exposed.

I’ve gotta hand it to my ex here; she knows how to be _classy_.

Anyway, we’re waiting for the girls to finish getting ready while we lounge on their couch with a couple of half finished beers. The apartment’s in complete disarray. Wendy’s got boxes half-packed all over the place, all in preparation for her big move-in with Stan. Which, I have to admit, makes me feel considerably less guilty about my fuck-and-run.

Right up until Stan chugs down the rest of his beer and announces that he’s got to talk to Wendy. Alone.

“Dude, we so do not have time for the two of you to bang-“ Bebe hastily switches gears when Wendy shoots her a lethal glare, “I mean, oh, a quickie. Have at it. By all fucking means.”

No one’s fooled by her act. As Stan and Wendy disappear into Wendy’s room I hear Bebe murmur to Red, “It’s not like our reservations in an hour, or anything. No rush at all.”

Red rolls her eyes and says, “Bee, don’t be a cockblock. When’s the last time _you_ got any, anyway?”

The blonde ignores her in favor of spraying toxically large amounts of hairspray in her tight curls.

Kenny’s way too close. I’m worried he’s going to inhale it all and die. It wouldn’t be his first death by chemical warfare, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, Stan and Wendy emerge from her room looking- well, not like they just had awesome sex, for one. There’s none of that rosy-cheeked afterglow or a trace of mussed hair.

I’m not entirely surprised. Less than five minutes ago, Wendy shrieked, “What?” so loudly the house practically shook. And it didn’t sound like a ‘what, oh baby, Stan, rock my world’.

It sounded like-

Oh shit.

Wendy levels her eyes at me, like she’s trying to burn a hole dead center in my forehead. I can tell she’s about to march up and give me a piece of her mind when Stan grabs hold of her wrist and shakes his head, ever so slightly.

Shit, shit, shit.

He did not just do what I think he did.

“What’s up, Wends?” Bebe asks, her own preternatural super best friend powers tingling.

“Nothing,” Wendy snaps, crossing her arms. She gives me the dirtiest look she can muster and says, “Let’s just- go, okay?”

The girls gather their things; makeup and purses and shit I’ve never really understood why they need to carry everywhere they go. Kenny trails behind them with an uncertain countenance, unsure of whether he needs to stay and prevent bloodshed between Stan and I or if he should just stay out of it altogether. I don’t blame him. I must look murderous.

As we make our way out onto the street, I whisper point blank, “You told her.”

“Yeah,” Stan shrugs, watching his girlfriend’s- or is she his ex now- back as she stomps toward their building’s parking lot.

“Why would you even- think that was okay to do?” I demand, and yeah, my voice gets a little high pitched at the end. Bebe turns to give me a curious look.

“I thought you’d be happy,” he hisses. Now he’s getting angry.

“I am happy. Can’t you fucking tell? I’m ecstatic,” I smile at him in a way that must look like a rabid dog baring its teeth.

“Dude, seriously- this is not what I wanted, at all.”

“I thought-“ Stan’s voice breaks off, and he sounds world weary, “I thought you wanted to be with me.”

“I do,” I say before I can stop it, “I mean, I think I do.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem?”

“You just dumped your girlfriend for me! That’s a lot of pressure! Having _sex_ was a lot of pressure,” I babble, wishing someone would just put me out of my misery, “And now I have to deal with this on top of it?”

Stan frowns, eyes narrowing, wounded, “Is that why you left? Because it was _too much_ pressure?”

“No, I- god, I don’t even fucking know why I left,” I rake a hand through my hair and add sheepishly, “I texted you?”

“I saw,” Stan murmurs, unsmiling, “I don’t care that you left, Kyle. I didn’t expect you to stay. Plus- I guess, I was thinking more about telling Wendy about us than what you leaving meant. But now, if it _does_ mean something…”

“I honestly don’t know,” I reply, because it’s true. I don’t have any idea why I thought it would be a good idea to hotfoot it out of Stan’s apartment last night. I didn’t spend the last month trying to convince him that he and Wendy were a sinking ship or that I was his lifeboat just to bail on him. On the same token, I don’t like thinking that maybe I’m the coward when it comes to this thing we have. It’s new, and it’s scary, and yeah- I’ve thought a lot about it, but it’s only recently that I’ve been able to think about it as an actual, real life possibility.

Like, um, yesterday.

Stan says nothing, shoving his hands in his pockets and speeding up to catch up with everyone else. I follow, quiet. Annoyed with myself.

“Wow, its cold out,” Kenny says conversationally, and it sounds like he’s been trying to make small talk for at least the past couple of minutes.

No one says a thing.

“Colder than a witch’s titty,” he continues, “Maybe we should do an experiment. Hey Bebe, let me just-“

“McCormick, if you so much as _brush_ my tit, I will make sure you lose that hand.”

“No need for violence,” he covers, hurriedly, glancing between Stan and me. I can see the question in his eyes, but I shake my head. I haven’t got an answer right now.

“By the way,” Stan whispers, so low I barely hear him, “I didn’t dump Wendy. I told her I think I’m gay for you. She threw an LSAT book at my head.”

He’s _gay_ for me? A smile tugs at my lips, “You told her that?”

“Yeah, dude,” Stan’s grin is conciliatory, and I return it full force. I really _do_ want to be with him…

Maybe Wendy has supernatural powers of her own, because as though she knows we’re talking about her, she suddenly turns on her heel. Except its not us she’s glaring at; it’s two men, standing beside a white van and smoking.

And that’s when Wendy goes _off_.

“What are you looking at?” one of the men, surprised, opens his mouth to say something, “No- what the fuck do you think you’re looking at?”

It’s obvious the men were looking at the girls with their stiletto heels and their too short skirts and the way their nipples stand at attention in this weather, which, like Kenny said, is freezing my balls off. But now they’re staring her down, challengingly, and maybe a little afraid. I’ve never seen her go berserk like this.

“Wendy, calm down,” Red tries, obviously a little in love with the attention the two grimy men were throwing their way.

“No, I will not calm down- shut up, I can handle this,” Wendy tells her, crossing her arms and looking positively dangerous.

One of the men finally ventures, “Bitch, what are you on about? We weren’t loo-“

“Don’t lie you jerk! You were staring,” she practically screams.

“Bebe, do something,” Red implores, tugging on Bebe’s nonexistent shirt.

Wendy interjects, “Bebe, don’t you dare say a word,” before she goes back to yelling obscenities in the direction of the two poor sods who now look mostly like they wish they’d never laid eyes on Wendy Testaburger.

Bebe shrugs, casting Red a helpless look.

“Wends, why are you flipping? It’s not a big deal,” Stan tries, and I could have told him that was a bad idea.

“And you call yourself a man?” Wendy sneers, “Shame on you, Stan Marsh.”

Realization dawns on his face. Like, oh hey, maybe this isn’t about two perverted old men after all, “Wendy-“

“No. Suck my metaphorical balls, Stan.”

“Now that’s uncalled for,” I cheer, my mouth trying to interfere and my mind regretting it instantly.

“Kyle, I swear I will castrate you.”

Dude, why do people keep feeling the need to threaten my man-parts? Even in the midst of all this, I can see Kenny giving me a smug smirk out of the corner of my eye. Asshole.

“Okay, yeah. Wendy, c’mon,” Bebe decides to step in, grabbing Wendy’s elbow. The dark haired girl tries to shrug out of Bebe’s grip, but she’s strong, and she manages to pull her friend all the way to the parking lot before she’s forced to let go.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Wendy admonishes her, not a hint of shame coloring her cheeks.

“Yeah, well. If you’d gone any more postal, someone might have called the cops,” Bebe explains, “And I’m hungry, okay? Can we just leave now?”

Red drives a pickup truck that only seats two, and she opts to take Bebe. I don’t blame her.

Except that means that Wendy ends up silently fuming in Stan’s car. She could drive hers, but she obviously wants to inflict her misery on others. I could get Kenny to take his, but I can’t leave Stan to suffer this alone. Not when it’s all my fault.

The drive to Denver is hideous. The only conversation is the one time Kenny, having figured it all out, decides it’s wise to say, “Hey, Wendy. It’s okay. I mean, at least you found out Stan’s an anal pirate now, and not like, on your wedding night.”

Yeah, that didn’t go over well. Kenny’s howls of pain prove that Wendy does not appreciate his sense of humor.

* * *

 

We chose to go to this fancy restaurant because the girls wanted it, and excepting Wendy at the time, none of them had boyfriends to take them. We tend to be an obliging bunch, so it hadn’t sounded like a big deal. Only now we’re all squished up in a booth, Wendy seething, Kenny still wincing any time her elbow strays south of the table’s lip, and Bebe and Red watching us with quiet suspicion. And then there’s Stan. Who’s sitting next to me. Who keeps running his finger along the inseam of my jeans.

Wendy yells at the waiter at least three different times, and I’m positive there’s going to be spit or something worse in our food, but I can’t even concentrate on it. Not when Stan keeps giving me these secret, hesitant smiles.

I feel rotten for abandoning him last night. I’m not used to sticking around and _cuddling,_ but I feel like with him, maybe I should have. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.

His finger brushes over the shape of my cock, already hardening, and the next thing I know we’re both excusing ourselves from the table. The girls give us wicked strange looks. Wendy’s is practically homicidal.

Kenny flashes me a fucking thumbs up.

None of it even registers. We tumble through the restaurant until we find the empty coat check room and Stan pushes me back into it, not at all gently.  

He kisses me breathless, teeth clicking, his tongue invading my mouth. I moan into it, carding my hands through his hair, pulling him closer. I’m willing every layer of clothing between us to be gone without making any effort at all to do so. Goddamn nonexistent psychic powers. The clash of our hips and the trembling in my hands; everything’s moving, everything’s shaking. I want to fuck him.

Or I want him to fuck me, or anything.

I just want to be fucking.

For a moment he pulls back and looks at me, completely wrecked and wanting. I could _ruin_ him right now, and he’d _beg_ for it.

I know it.

“Maybe we should,” his voice is choked with lust, and he’s having trouble finding the right words as I pant against his neck, sucking along his pulse points, “Back off.”

“What? Now?” I can’t keep the sudden hurt out of my voice. I wonder if this is my fault. I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut earlier, about little, stupid things like _pressure_ and _uncertainty._

“Dude, not like-“ he tries to wrench himself away, to distance himself from the way I’m pressed up against him and clear his head, “Not like you’re thinking. I want to do this. I just- maybe we should slow down? Try going on- fuck it, a date or something.”

“A date,” I echo.

“Yeah. I mean, you said sex was too much pressure, and…”

He obviously hates himself for saying it. I can feel his dick throbbing through his jeans, where the lower half of our bodies is still connected. I hate myself even more for being such and indecisive douchebag earlier. Obviously I want this. Obviously.

“We could- take it slow, I guess,” I mumble, because it’s a foreign concept and I’m still half hard in my pants and because all I can really think of is the other night, the sounds Stan made and the way his body looked in the glow of North Park’s street lamps. I want him so badly it hurts.

But really, this whole thing is my own damn fault.

Sighing, we wait a few minutes for our arousal to die, and a few more minutes after that because I may or may not fling myself at him in an attempt to suck face again, but eventually we make our way back to dinner. Back to the tension so thick it sucks all the air from the room.

Except every time Stan’s arm brushes mine, I feel like maybe I can breathe.


	16. Swear My Time's Never Cheap

_Talk me down, safe and sound. Too strung up to sleep. Wear me out, scream and shout. Swear my time’s never cheap. I fake my life like I’ve lived; too much. I take whatever you’re givin’; not enough. Overground, watch this space. I’m open- to falling from grace._

_-Six Underground by Sneaker Pimps-_

 

* * *

 

 A few days later, I’m at work, playing a rousing game of solitaire on one of the Center’s ancient desktop computers- and I’m talking prehistoric here- when I hear the heavy fall of footsteps. I don’t even bother trying to cover the screen to hide my illicit activities. For one, the slap of sneakers against carpet means Stan’s Adidas, not Randy’s loafers. For two, I honestly couldn’t care less if Randy found me fooling around. He’d probably be proud of me for it; the fact that I actually possess a work ethic has always seemed to bother him.

There’s this ten second pause where Stan doesn’t say a word. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, ghosting over my hair, tickling my scalp, but he’s totally, creepily silent. Then he claps a hand on my shoulder and goes, “So, what are you doing tonight?”

“Not sure,” I answer, keeping my face carefully blank. I actually am a hundred percent sure that my mom wants me to take part in some sort of family dinner shit that’s certain to be a form of torture outlawed in at least eighteen different countries, but if Stan’s planning on giving me an out, then hell. I’ll take it.

“I know something you could be doing. If you want, I mean. That is-“ his cheeks are tinting red.

I’ve seen Stan tongue-tied before, but it’s rare. He was positively fearless back in high school when it came to sports or class presentations, and the only thing that ever got him this worked up was- well, a girl. I’m not sure if I’m flattered or insulted by the implied comparison.

I swivel around in my chair, finally facing him, “Dude, spit it out.”

“This buddy of mine in Denver’s having a house party. I thought maybe you would- like to go with me?” he squeaks out the last part, his voice reaching heights it hasn’t attained since the onset of puberty.

“Well, I don’t know Stan,” I stroke my chin thoughtfully, intending to be as much of an asshole as possible, “It’s a party. Didn’t you say you’re done with parties?”

His breath hitches, “That’s not-“

“I mean, I’m _positive_ you told me that you were sick of acting immature.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“You’re sending me all these mixed signals. No parties, and now you want to go to one. You want to go on a date before we go any further, but now you want to- oh shit, wait, this is a date, isn’t it?” my insecurity catches up with me at the last second, ruining the act.

“Yeah,” he breaks into a smile, his breathing evening out, “I’m hoping it is.”

I grin, refusing to answer, but way too pleased with how this is working out.

“And it’s not a _party_ ,” he adds defensively, “It’s more like a gathering. This dude I know from college is like, a total frat boy, but this is his housewarming with his girlfriend. I think the craziest thing there will be some kind of fucked up sangria and triple chocolate cake.”

Great. The last ‘classy’ shindig we went to ended with Kenny kissing the bride-to-be and Stan dumping me rather unceremoniously.

“Okay, okay,” I stand, so that we’re nose to nose, right there in broad daylight, in the middle of the office, “I’ll go on a date with you to your not-a-party party.”

I can feel his sharp inhale, the way his body teeters toward me for one dangerous second where I think maybe he might kiss me, even though his dad’s standing about ten feet away, eyes glued on his mini-TV broadcasting reruns of year-old Redwings game.

Right before his mouth lands on mine, Stan pulls away, giving me his best enigmatic look. I know that look well; it’s the one he gives chicks when he knows he’s won, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to flutter my eyelashes and swoon over it. Except, now that I’m seeing it head on, with all that intensity in his cobalt eyes directed my way, I sort of realize what all the fuss is about. Because, yeah, it makes me want to pin him against the nearest desk and have a repeat session of the other night. Repeatedly.

“Awesome,” he winks at me, and no, I totally do not grip the edge of the chair behind me because my knees have turned to pudding.

Only I actually really do.

* * *

 

So, dating your best friend isn’t as easy as the movies make it out to be. For one thing, you start worrying about shit you never would have before, like _what you’re wearing_.

I mean, I take pride in the fact that I have style, which is a rare thing in this hick town, but it’s never been a deal breaker before.

Actually, calling it _style_ might be giving myself too much credit. If I lived in a big city, the girls would be dismissing me left and right, but at least around these parts, I’m considered fashion conscious when I run some gel through my hair and wear clothes without holes.

Which isn’t a _bad_ thing, no matter what the fuck Cartman says. Mostly it means I know which jeans make a girl want into my pants, which t-shirts frame my muscles just right. It’s all about presentation.

Except Stan’s never cared about the way I looked before, and I’ve never been concerned about making myself look _just right_ for a night out. I feel like my mind has been invaded by my thirteen year old self, who spent too much time worrying about what everyone else thought and not nearly enough time trying to have fun. Which is probably why when Ike walks into my bedroom around six, his eyes get wide as saucers at the mess on my bed.

“Hot date?” he guesses, clearing a spot for himself up near my pillows. I glare at him; it was ordered chaos, thank you very much.

“No. Maybe. I guess,” I mutter, scavenging my closet for a pair of shoes that don’t look like they were buried beneath a snow bank and left there through the thaw.

Not that South Park ever thaws.

“I haven’t seen you get this worked up since that date in eighth grade. Remember, you went with Bebe Stevens?”

Fuck, I remember. Worst date ever. It was the first time Bebe and I had ever gone out, and I was nervous as hell. She’d been after my ass since third grade, but I was a late bloomer. I didn’t even notice the appeal of the blonde’s bodacious breasts until Stan pointed it out, during gym one day. He goaded me into asking her to the dance, and I had this nervous breakdown that can be compared in magnitude only to Chernobyl. The night ended with Bebe locking lips with Clyde Donovan in the middle of the dance, and total social humiliation for me.

It took most of freshman year to get over what went down and ask Bebe out on a second date.

I really hope tonight didn’t have a similar outcome.

“Thanks for reminding me, jerkoff.”

“Just trying to help,” Ike replies mildly. I’m not facing him, but I can imagine the little smirk he’s wearing perfectly, “You missed my game yesterday.”

“Did I? Sorry, dude.”

I vaguely recall ma inviting me along, but I had plans with Kenny, and it wasn’t like it was a championship. Hockey’s not even in season right now; this was some stupid little charity exhibition.

“Yeah, right.”

“What?” sighing, I turn around. My little brother’s hair is sticking up in every which direction, and he’s got that serious turn of his lips that’s an exact forgery of mom’s you’re-about-to-get-a-lecture-young-man grimace.

“You haven’t been to any of my games since you came home.”

“I’ve been busy,” I shrug my shoulders noncommittally, already trying to decide if wearing Stan’s favorite color would be too girly. Because I’m not a girl. But I’m also not averse to anything that will subliminally convince him that the night needs to end in sex. Call me a sneaky bastard.

“Yeah, being a fag,” Ike mumbles under his breath.

“Hey,” I turn sharply towards him, “Watch your mouth.”

“You say it all the time.”

“I’m nearly twenty four, dude. I can say whatever the fuck I want.”

“And I’m going to be eighteen…soon,” Ike says impetuously, and I keep forgetting that he’s actually nearly legal, “I can cuss.”

Cuss. Pssh. No one should be allowed to say words like ‘asshole’ when they call it cussing.

“Fine, whatever, kid. I got bigger problems.”

“Everything’s a bigger problem than me,” Ike responds quietly, “You don’t even notice I’m here half the time.”

Okay, wait, what?

“Ike-“

“No. I bet you wish you didn’t even have a little brother.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there.”

I march over to my bed and shove the kid over onto a pile of button downs so that I can perch next to him. Furious, he says, “What the-“

I don’t let him spout whatever brainwashed bullshit he’s thinking, drawing the kid under my arm so I’ve got him in a chokehold. With my left hand, I began attacking his bird’s nest hairstyle with my knuckles, viciously rubbing them over his scalp until he begins to squirm.

“Stop, stop!” he squeals, “Mercy! Fuck, Kyle! I said mercy!”

When I’m fully satisfied that I’ve got his attention, I stop my reign of terror over his head, but keep a firm grip on his neck, “Listen up. You are my baby brother, dude. I wouldn’t have it any other way. What up with the pity party?”

Ike goes limp in my grasp and says, “I just- thought it would be better, having you back home. I thought we’d do- more stuff.”

I am pretty much the world’s most terrible big brother.

“…Sorry, dude. I’ve been kind of- shit’s been going down, and I’ve been a selfish bastard. But that doesn’t mean I don’t- you know, love you, and stuff-“

“Gay,” Ike mouths into my armpit, and for a moment I return to digging my knuckles so hard into his scalp that I’ll probably leave a crater sized imprint of my fist.

“Shut up,” I advise, “Why don’t we go out on Stark’s this weekend? We can go fishing. You like fishing, right?”

“And by fishing, you mean we can sneak some of dad’s beer and talk about girls?”

“Yeah, that,” I grin, pulling him closer into my side and feeling like a total douche. I didn’t mean to make him feel like he was some extraneous piece of my life. That needs to be rectified, pronto.

“Okay,” he exhales, “You better not stand me up.”

“I won’t,” I promise, already making plans to cancel on Kenny, who wanted to go to some fair up in North Park. Friends are gold, but Ike’s blood. Even if we’re not actually related, he’s still here, still a part of me. He _is_ my brother. I’m going to try my hardest not to fuck that up.

“Wear this,” Ike offers me a wrinkled button down, “Mom always says it _brings out your eyes_.”

“Spaz,” I clap his shoulder affectionately, “Now get the hell out of my room.”

* * *

 

Getting picked up by Stan is pretty much the awkwardest thing ever. We do this shuffle thing at the door where we both try to tell the other that he looks nice, but my whole family is staring at us like we’ve sprouted second heads and it’s so weird that we both give up and climb into the car in silence. The ride to Denver is soundtracked by a blaring classic rock station and the occasional argument over which teams might be runners up for the MLB World Series. Our conversation isn’t exactly stilted, but it’s not quite normal. It’s like we both keep expecting to fall back into our comfort zone of super best friendship, and it’s not happening.

By the time we find a parking space, we’re both tense.

Stan’s friend lives in a squat redbrick apartment building that doesn’t look like much from the outside, but seems pretty posh once we get past the _doorman_. I’d never be able to afford a place where a man with a fucking top hat calls me sir and opens the door. In the elevator, I grin at Stan, like can-you-believe-this-shit? He returns it, wide and open and happy. The squeeze on my heart lessens a little. Maybe this night won’t be such a disaster.

It’s easy to find the door the housewarming party is hiding behind. And no matter what Stan said, it’s a _party_. Music is causing the wood to jump in time with the beat, so much so that we don’t even bother knocking. No one would hear.

I raise an eyebrow and twist the knob, pulling the door out toward me and gesturing, “After you.”

“It’s not a party,” he insists, but the words die on his lips when he steps inside, and I can see why. There must be like a million people inside the apartment, most of which are big muscled frat boys with red cups full of something that sure as hell doesn’t look like sangria.

“Shut up,” Stan moans, before I can even say anything snarky. Wisely, I keep quiet and close the door behind me.

Only to narrowly miss being crushed to death by a hulking man of a guy, who throws his arms over Stan and cries, “My man!”

“Hey, Kevin,” Stan says easily, catching the hulk’s weight like it’s nothing. And okay, I’m a little impressed.

A petite redheaded girl who was invisible in the crowd of jock-sized party-goers materializes at Stan’s side as the guy, Kevin, begins blubbering about how happy he is that we made it. She pats the man’s hand fondly.

“That’s right, buddy, we’re ecstatic,” glancing up at Stan she says, “He’s the pinnacle of masculinity, this one.”

“Yet you still manage to put up with him,” Stan grins, “Nice to see you, Claret.”

“You too,” the redhead stands on tippy toes to kiss Stan’s cheek, “Who’s your friend?”

“This- is Kyle.”

“Kyle? _The_ Kyle?” Claret examines me, her tone accusatory, “He’s hot. You never mentioned that.”

I can feel my cheeks burning as Stan’s gaze wanders over me as well. Something clicks in his expression, and he answers with a predatory smile, “It must have slipped my mind.”

Claret’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline, but all she does is instruct us to enjoy ourselves, and not to trash the place.

“You talked about me to her?” I ask, after she extricates Stan from Kevin’s rather strong embrace and pulls him back into the crowd.

“I talked to _everyone_ about you. You’re my best friend.”

Warmth pools in my chest, and I query, “Where do you know these people from again?”

“College,” he laughs, looking around the place, totally in his element.

“Some college you went to,” I remark, because everyone in here is built like a linebacker. I wonder if they put something in the food at the Student Union.

“It was,” Stan agrees, slinging an arm around my neck with a familiarity that no longer feels out of place. Any tension I felt in the car has dissipated; all of a sudden, this is just one more party. Something about the way Stan looked at me when he introduced me to his friends replaced my nerves with adrenaline, and the weight of Stan’s arm on my shoulder is like a firebrand.

“Beer?” I suggest.

“Beer,” he confirms, and we wade over the kitchen, where the happy couple has set up multiple kegs. Real classy of them.

For a while, it’s not bad. Stan goes around introducing me to his friends, a lot of whom are liberal arts graduates without a clue of what they want to do in the real world, which is kind of nice. I know Stan’s been feeling pretty lost about what he wants to do with his life, and I can tell it totally cheers him up to be surrounded by other people feeling the same way.

And it’s easy for me to pretend that I’m just like them.

I’m not sure if Stan knows the reason I’m still in South Park, but maybe he can guess. I can see it in the way his eyes tighten the one time someone inquires what industry I’m planning to go into; tightness that vanishes when I say that I haven’t got any fucking idea. I’ve put off real life for my best friend, from the internships I turned down at the beginning of the summer to my mother’s questions about what exactly I’m going to do come fall. Maybe it isn’t the most noble of choices, but I’m happy doing this. Being here. With him.

Only, being at the actual party? Yeah, that gets old. See, going to a party with a date isn’t something I’ve really done before. I mean, yeah, sure, I had a girlfriend or two at my university, but when we went out there, we both knew people. Here, I’m totally out of my element. Stan’s greeting all these huge oafs with a smile and a recollection, while I mill behind him, an uncertain grin pasted on my lips. I listen and laugh at all the appropriate moments, but I don’t really have anything to contribute to the conversation. I’m not sure what to do, and I can’t exactly fall back on my normal plan; get wasted and find a hot chick.

Which kind of sucks, because I’ve already been approached by a curvy brunette and a rather flat chested but fucking adorable blonde. Not that either of them hold a candle to Stan, but you know, I’m buzzed and they were keen on giving me all the attention I wanted.

Well, until Stan noticed and possibly threatened to pour his drink down the brunette’s shirt.

My mom would be so ashamed; she’s like the foremost social butterfly of South Park, even if her definition of social involves class action suits and protests rather than cocktail get togethers and bake sales. She always tells me that if I want to be heard, I should just jump in; but I doubt graduates of Colorado State are very interested in hearing about the classes I took a zillion miles away.

At some point, Stan must notice my discomfort, because he nudges me and says, “Dude, you’ve barely touched your drink.”

“Actually,” I frown, not wanting him to notice that I’m having a suckish time, “This is my third one.”

“Oh,” Stan glances at his cup, three quarters empty but still definitely his first.

“I mean- that’s okay, right? Should I, uh, stop?”

I really don’t want to quit drinking. It’s the only thing making this bearable.

“You have to ask your boyfriend for permission?” the jerk that Stan was talking to interjects, sneering.

“Dude,” Stan scowls, “Shut your fucking face.”

“C’mon, Marsh. Was just joking,” the guy tells him, eyes narrowing. Stan’s narrow right back, and his irises look almost black in the dim lighting of the room. His hands are balling into fists, and if he walks out of this with a black eye alone, he’ll be lucky.

“Hey, hey,” I wave my fingers in front of both of them. I’m not interested in having to save Stan’s ass when this loser goes berserk. I’ve had my share of drunken fist fights, and ideally, I think one shouldn’t happen on a _date_ , “Just answer the question. Should I stop?”

“What? No. I-“ Stan groans, ignoring the asshole finally, “I guess I should- c’mon.”

He grabs my arm, and that’s when the dude snorts, “Fags.”

Yeah, so that doesn’t go down so well. Before I can even attempt to stop him, Stan’s fist is buried in the guy’s face.

I probably couldn’t have stopped him anyway, because I’m too busy holding the guy’s arms for my friend. He sags against me, dropping like a fucking rock.

“What the hell?” the dick yelps, trying to break free of me, but I remember some things from my day long stint on the wrestling team. Like how _not_ to let go. I can feel the way his muscles strain edging out from his elbow, curving up into his shoulder, but I loyally hold his arms above his head, keeping him on his knees. He’s spitting out a stream of curse words that would make my mother blush, and I dig my knee into his spine. Just to emphasize the point that he’s not in control here.

He seems to get it.

Stan looks kind of heroic for a moment, outlined by the dim lights and the interested gazes of everyone here, old college friends and perfect strangers and absolutely no one I really care about, except for him. I can see Claret over the sea of heads that are suddenly facing us, and boy, she does not look happy.

“Uh, Stan?”

“Right,” my friend nods, leaning in close and whispers something in the guy’s ear that makes him turn pale and tremble. As soon as he’s done, I drop my arms, almost expecting the big guy to lash out, but he stays surprisingly still, moving only to clutch his nose. The red of his blood starkly contrasts his too pale skin, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in staunching the free flow of the bleeding.

Seeing Claret approach, I bid the jackass a, “Later, Sweetheart,” with a pat on the ribs and then allow Stan to pull me down the hall, into the nearest empty room. Once we’re there, facing each other, he sort of sighs and says, “I’m sorry. This isn’t turning out quite how I would have liked.”

“Um.”

“It’s weird, right? I mean, it feels weird.”

“A little,” I admit, shoving my hands in my pockets for lack of something better to do with them, “Might be weirder when Claret skewers you.”

“She’ll get over it. That dude’s always been shifty.”

“What did you say to him, anyway?”

“I told him to watch his language, ‘cause I’ve got some pictures…I know his mom’s address…” Stan smirks a little.

I chuckle, reflexively, but then I remember what we were talking about before. My laughter dies away, and Stan flinches.

I don’t like not knowing where I stand, and right now my footing is so unsteady I might as well be in limbo.

“And uh, by the way,” Stan stumbles over the least smooth segue ever, “You can drink as much as you want. I didn’t- this thing about wanting to grow up was about _you_. I mean, it wasn’t, because that would be moronic, but it was, too.”

“You are the most indecisive bastard I’ve ever met in my life.”

He blinks and offers me a shy smile, so out of place on his usually confident face, “That argument was my way of saying that I wanted to be able to man up. I wanted to tell you- everything that had been going on in my head since that night with you and Wendy, to be able to face…well, everything. When you move on and figure out what you're doing with your life, I guess...I want to be able to have my own thing. I don't want to be a burden. I'm slowing down so I can be better. I didn’t mean to put restrictions on how you act, dude. I’d never want that.”

My chest feels wide open and raw, and this wave of relief I never even knew I needed washes over me.

“Kyle,” he says, and I take a step closer to him, pulling his mouth to mine. It’s soft and chaste and over too soon. When he pulls back, his cobalt eyes are luminous, and his voice is choked when he murmurs, “So, this party is kind of lame. You want to- go?”

“Nah.”

“But this- isn’t exactly going like a date should go.”

“Fuck it. Stop worrying about this being a date, and let’s just- have fun.”

His eyes light up, “Beer pong?”

“Hell yes,” I give him a high five, “I think it’s time we showed these losers why we were crowned the _champions_.”

“Amen,” Stan goes to open the door, and then, out of the blue give me one last quick kiss, something I can feel all the way to my toes.

Then we leave the room and kick _ass_.

So, no, the night doesn’t exactly go like a first date _should_ , but the thing I realize when Claret and Kevin finally kick us out around four in the morning, Stan’s hand firmly clutched in mine, is that it’s kind of cool to be able to share it all together. 


	17. Lose With Eloquence, And Smile

_You’re the color, you’re the movement and the spin. (Never) Could it stay with me the whole day long? Fail with consequence. Lose with eloquence, and smile. I’m not in this movie, I’m not in this song. (Never) Leave me paralyzed, love. Leave me hypnotized, love._

_-Consequence by The Notwist-_

 

* * *

 

This thing, whatever it is, goes on for weeks. And the weird part? I’m happy. Ridiculously so.

The summer stretches out before me like an endless highway; the kind they show in car commercials. God knows South Park has nothing but a labyrinth of short streets and winding mountain roads, but I feel like I could take them at two hundred miles an hour and still not be half as breathless as Stan leaves me. He’s taken over my world in the best way.

I know I’m supposed to do…more, somehow. To have some kind of quarter life crisis where I reevaluate everything my life has been up until now and how Stan fits into the new, skewed regime. But the simple fact is, Stan’s always fit. Even while we’re reevaluating our whole relationship, navigating uncharted courses, testing new waters, he’s still the same kid who split his lunch with me on our first day of preschool. He’s still my best friend.

It’s kind of awesome.

So anyway, it’s Friday afternoon and I’m on my way to Stan’s house for an early dinner with his parents, which is kind of an old high school tradition that used to be an excuse for me to get away from my mom. Now it’s- well, still an excuse to get away from my mom. She drives me a little insane, on occasion.

Plus Stan has this weird kink about making out in his old bedroom. It makes me want to ask if maybe these feelings aren’t as new as he’s letting on, but I’m pretty sure that would be a bad idea. He has conviction now; when he goes to kiss me I barely see any uncertainty in his eyes, but…I guess I still remember the way he looked a few weeks ago. Like he wanted to bolt every time he saw my face.

No way can I go back to that.

I’m halfway to my dad’s car, keys in hand, ready to make a great escape before my mom spots me, when my phone rings. It’s Kenny.

“Shit, man. I hooked up with these two bitches last night and- dude, I can’t even process.”

I sigh, leaning against the driver’s side door, “Process what? What happened?”

Kenny groans, “They stole my clothes.”

“So? I know you’re a poor fuck, but you have a job. Buy some more.”

“Yeah, Ky. Thanks for that extraordinary moment of clarity you’ve just given me,” Kenny drawls, his accent getting thick with irritation, “I _will_. As soon as you come pick me up.”

“Pick you up?” I scowl at my cell, because this is so not a good time. Mrs. Marsh promised me delicious apple pie, and I was hoping for some quality time with Stan in his old room, “Why, where are you?”

“…the elementary school.”

“Kenny,” my mouth gaped open, “Dude, Kenny. No.”

“ _Yeah_. All the school clubs are still in session. I’m in a janitor’s closet. Bring a pair of jeans,” he advises before hanging up.

Those must’ve been some _freaky_ girls.

I get to the elementary school fifteen minutes later, and it takes me six tries to find the right janitor’s closet. I spent nearly ten years of my life in the place, so you’d think I’d be able to figure my way around, but no. Everything looked weirdly familiar, but not, like a movie I haven’t seen in forever. I finally have to stumble into a classroom where a teacher’s holding court with the school chess club and ask for directions. Which leads to an uncomfortable conversation where I’m pretty sure it’s insinuated that I’m a pedophile, but whatever. I finally find the right place and knock.

Kenny answers, stark ass naked.

I jingle the car keys at him, “I hope you’re happy. I’m going to be late for dinner at Stan’s. He’s going to choke me to death.”

“Jesus, you act like you guys are fucking. Oh wait, you are.”

“Funny,” I roll my eyes.

“You know,” he snatches the jeans and t-shirt I brought from my arms, and I try to avert my eyes as he pulls the denim over his long legs, “I’m glad you two are finally together. I mean you’ve been boning each other with your eyes since like, puberty.”

“Um, I cannot even begin to describe how false that statement is.”

Kenny glares at me, pausing with the jeans around his knees, “For such an intelligent motherfucker you sure are stupid. Seriously, it’s about goddamned time someone did something about all that pent up tension.”

“It’s not like either of us were sexually frustrated, Ken.”

“Just ‘cause you’ve been swimming in prime pussy doesn’t mean you ain’t frustrated. You know, like, emotionally and crap.”

“I’m not emotionally frustrated,” I reply, feeling kind of indignant.

“Well not now,” he says wisely, “‘cause you got Stan’s dick up your-“

“Shut the fuck up, dude. And put those fucking pants on.”

Kenny obliges, pulling them up around his waist, zipping the fly, and buttoning them, “I’m just saying, sex is like, intrinsically linked to love-“

“Intrinsically?” I whistle, “That’s a big word.”

“Bite me, bitch- they’re like, intrinsically linked, and playing hide the sausage with your super best probably like unchained all these repressed feelings and shit.”

I sigh, “Are you done playing relationship guru?”

“I could go on all day.”

“I know, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Hey, you should be happy. I don’t personally share the preference, but I recognize your right to let your freak flag fly. I’m a supportive friend,” his voice got muffled over the last bit as he pulled the t-shirt over his head.

“You make it sound like I have some kind of weird fetish,” I tell him as we make our way out of the closet and into the hallway.

“You do.”

“Homosexuality isn’t a fetish, Kenny.”

“Who’s talking about homosexuality? Fuck that, I would bang Stan if the chance arose. I was referring to that erotic asphyxiation thing you mentioned.”

“I did not _mention_ anything like that,” I push open the doors to the school a little harder than I mean to, and they clang loudly in the quiet halls.

He smirked, “Uh, no, I’m positive you did. Stan’s going to choke you if you’re late, right? Kinky.”

“Pervert.”

“Is that something I’m supposed to be ashamed of?”

We reach my car, and he patiently waits for me to unlock the doors before he climbs in.

“Why didn’t you call me until now, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve been jacking it to second graders all day.”

“Um, no. I kind of downed a bottle of Johnny Walker. I was dead to the world until about ten minutes before I called. Knew you’d be the man for the job, Brof.”

I’m not sure what that says about me; that I’m the guy friends call when they need to be broken out of public school. Naked. I refuse to lower myself by replying.

It’s about a ten minute ride to Kenny’s house. In South Park, it’s never more than twenty, anywhere in the town limits. When we reach his place, I reach across his lap to push open the passenger door, “Get the hell out of my car, Kenny.”

“What?” he asks cheekily, “You’re not going to invite me to dinner? You know, it still says I’m under the poverty line on my tax returns.”

“Seriously?”

“Well my parents still declare me,” he shifted uncomfortably, “And I don’t make that much…”

“No. Seriously, you guys pay taxes?”

“Oh, good point. Sometimes. On leap years.”

“You know this is supposed to like, be a date? I can’t take you. Stan will get pissed.”

“Okay, so what if I show up halfway through dinner, all unannounced and shit? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

“Kenny,” I sag in my seat, wishing he’d just get the fuck out so I can get to the face sucking and pie.

“I just want food, Kyle. Why do you want me to starve?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Kenny gives me the crossest look I’ve seen since my little brother was ten. Nobody glares like a kid, man, “Fine, Mr. prissy pants, be that way.”

“Okay, I’m so serious right now. Get out of my car.”

“Aw, but I love your prissy pants,” he makes kissy faces at me, “Give Stan a kiss, preferably on his-“

I shove him out the door and slam it in his face.

* * *

 

“…sorry I’m late.”

Stan frowns at me, “My mom’s already got food on the table.”

“Sorry?” I try again, offering him my best smile.

“Shelley’s here,” he growls.

“She still evil?”

“Yes!”

I try smiling again.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he grabs my wrist and drags me towards the dining room table, not bothering to drop it when we enter. The Marshes are used to seeing us be overly affectionate, I guess. Knowing that doesn’t stop my cheeks from pinking. It doesn’t stop me from feeling kind of like a criminal.

You know the feeling. Like when you go to pick up a girl for prom? And you’re jittery and nervous the whole time, ‘cause you want to get into her pants _intensely,_ but you have to go through her dad, and he knows every single filthy thought going through your head. It’s like metaphorically staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Or, y’know, not so metaphorically if he turns out to be one of those complete psychos who like, checks up on his daughter’s chastity.

Stan’s not any blushing virgin, and Randy’s too damned stupid to put two and two together. But I still feel the same kind of guilt when I smile at his parental units and take a seat, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Stan’s mom murmurs, and Randy kind of grunts along in harmony. Shelley doesn’t even bother giving me more than a curt nod of her head.

Sharon says sweetly, “How’re your parents, Kyle?”

“Oh, uh…great,” I try to be polite and like, put my napkin on my lap and shit. It’s not exactly a five star restaurant, but Stan’s mom does like to play at being a happy little homemaker.

“Sheila must be ecstatic about what a fine young man you’re turning out to be,” Sharon continues with an absolutely serene look as she passes me the salad bowl.

“I guess?” I’m not sure about the correct answer on that one. Shelley’s sitting across the table, and she snickers and snorts. I see her laugh hasn’t changed.

“Fine. Young. Man,” Stan mouths at me, soundless, eyes mirthful. I kick him under the table.

The dinner conversation goes like that for a little while, with Sharon interrogating me in that mild mannered way of hers that makes me squirm, because she’s not the kind of person you can just blow off. Stan’s not helping anything, making faces at me Finally, blessedly, she turns to her son.

“Stanley, how’s Wendy? You haven’t brought her around lately.”

I feel _the_ sudden urge to flee the room. Stan glances at me out of the corner of his eyes. It’s been nearly a month. He hasn’t told them yet?

“Oh, uh. I don’t really know?” his voice cracks the way it used to do during puberty, “We broke up.”

“What?” Randy explodes, coming out of his boredom induced coma, “why would you do something stupid like that? That girl has _great_ tits.”

He clearly does not remember that he was all for it five seconds before.

 _Kyle, don't let her neuter my son again,_ he'd said. _Kyle, save my boy,_ he'd said.

Randy Marsh: ever an enigma.

“Gross, dad.”

“Seriously, Stan, I doubt your judgment sometimes. God blessed that girl with voluptuous curves. Why would you ever give that- wait. Wait,” Randy holds up a hand, like he’s about to deliver a great revelation to the table, “She thought you were a flamer, didn’t she?”

Ah, there's the point of this. Clearly he just wants to fuck with Stan.

“ _Dad_ ,” Stan warned, eyes flicking to me.

“A great, huge flaming queer. I _told_ you if you spent all your time with Kyle this was going to happen. No offense, Kyle.”

“Of course,” I reply dryly. Twenty three years of this has made me practically immune to Randy’s inability to keep a conversation PC, but I can see Stan squirming.

“The way you two walk around like you’re Siamese butt buddies must have really tipped her over the edge. No wonder she dumped you,” Randy continues, thoughtful, “We should sit you down in front of some James Bond movies for a few hours. Heterosexual training. That Daniel Craig’s the epitome of masculinity.”

“Daniel Craig made out with like, three different guys in other movies, dad.”

“Aha, something only a fag would know! Wait. No he hasn’t. Bond doesn’t bite pillows,” Randy protests.

“Dude, you are seriously disturbed.”

I can see the way Stan’s fingers are clenching in the denim of his jeans. He totally wants to reach across the table and slug the man. Which, whatever. It’s not that big a deal. This isn’t anything Randy hasn’t said before. I take a sip of water.

“Stan, don’t talk to your father that way. Randy, lay off the interrogation. Wendy’s an STD ridden bitch, and that’s probably why they broke up. Did she give you the clap, honey?” Sharon asks sweetly.

Stan’s face turns an interesting plum color, and I’m about to spit out my drink.

“ _Mom_!”

I bite back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, honey, but she’s dumped you for other boys how many times? Nobody would want to break my baby’s heart unless they were getting some stellar sex out of it.”

“Thanks, mom, but I broke it off with her.”

“Oh really? That’s…unexpected,” she digs her fork into her meat and resumes eating, like she hasn’t said anything at all.

“Why exactly is it unexpected?”

“She’s calling you a pussy, Stan. Wendy was some fine, Grade A-“

“Dad, I swear to god-“

The doorbell rings.

“Oh my,” Sharon’s eyes widen, “I wonder who that could be?”

Please don’t be who I think it is, please don’t be who I think it is, please _don’t_ \- I hang my head. There’s a six foot something lanky blond in front of me, all wide blue eyes and innocence on his face.

“Kenny? What the fuck?” Stan says, clambering to his feet to give our friend this one armed hug thing, like they haven’t seen each other in ages instead of days. Sharon hums in delight and returns to her seat.

“I could smell your mom’s pie from all the way out on the street,” Kenny replies in this totally lurid voice, waggling his eyebrows, “Warm. Gooey. Delicious.”

“Dude. You really need to get laid,” Stan hisses, glancing sharply towards his parents, “How long has it been?”

“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, tilting my chair on its back legs to look up at them. I frown at Kenny and say, “Douchebag.”

He grins, “Do you really think I’d miss your little family dinner date? I figured this shit would be better than Pay Per View.”

Stan looks back and forth between us, obviously confused. Before he can say anything, Randy yells at both of them to take a seat. Kenny pulls up one of the spare chairs sitting against the far wall, sliding in between Sharon and me with a cheeky grin.

“I can’t believe you just invited yourself,” I hiss, ignoring the look Stan is giving me from my other side.

“I _told_ you I was hungry, Brof. You are a _terrible_ friend.”

“Now where were we,” Randy hums, “Oh, right. Fags.”

Kenny snorts, “See? Why would I want to miss this?”

“We were not talking about-“ Stan blusters, looking totally scandalized. It’s kind of cute, “About- _that_.”

“No, no, Stan. I’m sure that we were. I was telling you if you don’t look out, the gay is just going to sneak up on you, and before you know it, you’ll be _infected_. I’d recommend getting back together with Wendy immediately. If, you know, she hadn’t dumped you for the eightieth time.”

“Wendy did not dump me,” Stan exclaims, “Didn’t we just go through this?”

I hear Kenny chuckling to himself beside me, but I’m doing my damndest to avoid looking at him.

Shelley turns to Randy and says in the most casual voice I’ve ever heard, “So dad, I was thinking about becoming a lesbian. I’ve heard there’s nothing like a woman’s touch.”

“ _Shelley_ ,” Stan groans, slumping down onto his chair.

“See, look, Sharon, they got our own daughter. They’ve turned her to the poon. I told you it was infectious.”

“There is nothing that is not wrong about this conversation,” Stan concludes, straightening, “Do you think both of you could maybe not suck, just for one night?”

Shelley reaches across her father’s lap and flicks Stan in the arm, hard, “What’s it to you, dork? Got a secret in your closet? You letting Kyle pound you? Is that it?”

I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. Stan’s sister’s been alluding to the same thing since we were five, but now it’s suddenly got a ring of truth to it. My guilt from earlier floods back.

“Shelley,” Sharon admonishes, “We have guests.”

“Kyle’s not a guest, he’s Stan’s butt buddy. He practically lives here.”

“What about me?” Kenny asks. No one answers.

“Young lady, I was hoping that getting engaged might mean you’ve matured, but obviously-“

“Weren’t you listening, mom? Wedding’s off. I dig chicks.”

“Hot,” Kenny comments idly.

“Sharon, we’re never going to have grandchildren,” Randy leans across the table towards his wife, “Our daughter’s a carpet muncher, and our son is this close to becoming a-“

“Dad,” Stan’s voice is getting increasingly higher every time he objects. I can feel him, next to me, wound up and tense.

“Don’t be silly,” Sharon says in a weary voice, “Shelley’s being a brat, and Stan isn’t gay. He’s just…sensitive. Wendy wasn’t right for him. You said so yourself, just a few weeks back.”

Kenny snickers idly.

“I’m not being a brat,” Shelley frowns petulantly, “You’re not supporting my right to fuck girls.”

“Still hot,” Kenny enthuses.

“Shut it, McCormick,” Shelley snaps, smiling pleasantly.

“That’s a good idea,” Stan murmurs, “Could you all just _shut up_?”

It’s only now that I notice his fingers are gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are turning white. Dude.

“Stan, we’re only looking out for you,” Randy tells him in his best fatherly, concerned voice, “It’s not easy, being a homosexual.”

“Yeah,” Kenny agrees with barely concealed glee, “Remember that time Kyle’s baby brother beat up that queer on the playground in seventh grade?”

Stan opens his mouth, but I beat him to the punch, “What? No. Ike never did that.”

“Yeah he did,” Kenny contradicts me with a grin. Then, a beat later, he corrects himself, “I mean, you’re right, no, he didn’t.”

“ _Kenny_?”

“Okay, so maybe he did and called me to pick him up from detention so you and your mom would never find out. Don’t worry, Ky, I set him straight. I gave that boy a sexual revolution-“

“Stop,” I hold up a hand, “I don’t want to know.”

Stan shoves his chair back, marching away from the table without even saying a word. Sharon calls, “Stan? Are you okay, honey?”

“Where’s he going?” Randy asks, not looking too concerned.

“I’ll- uh, check,” I hurry after him, because all I can think of is the white skin on his hands and how tense his shoulder had gotten.

I find him in his room.

“What gives, dude? Dinner’s still piping hot, and-”

He’s got me pinned up against his door before I can finish my sentence, “Would you like to go back? Flirt with Kenny some more?”

“Flirt?” I frown, shoving him away and crossing my arms, “I thought you were pissed at your parents, not still on this shit.”

“ _That_ ,” Stan makes a face, but then he smiles his good ol’ boy charming smile and holds up his hands like he’s about to approach a particularly recalcitrant pony. I’m not sure how I feel about the comparison, but I drop my hands to my sides and let him in close.

“Yeah, _that_ ,” I say, and he kisses me, slow and burning. I arch into it, speeding it up, moving my mouth against his until he opens up for me.

“That made me think,” he mumbles into my mouth, trailing his fingers along my arms.

I want to ask him what it made him think, but honestly, I’m kind of occupied by the way he’s nipping and sucking along my neck, the way his hands have moved down to my hips, and the way he’s making it a little hard to catch my breath.

“I’m never coming out. Not ever,” Stan says firmly into my collar bone, driving his hips hard into mine for punctuation, and I’m not sure whether I want to keep up the friction or actually stop and talk.

This sounds like it could be serious, but fuck-

He feels _so good_.

Talking is for people who don’t have Stan Marsh pressed up against them.

 


	18. I Got Ninety Nine Problems

_I got ninety nine problems. Being a bitch ain’t one.  
_

_-99 Problems by Jay-Z-_

* * *

So I’m on a date. Nothing fancy; just lunch. But still, man. It’s a date. Ideally, I would get some peace and quiet, a good sandwich, and maybe a quick game of feeling Stan’s junk up with my foot.

Instead I get Cartman.

He walks up to our table, turns to Stan, and says, “Dear hippie. Please go coexist somewhere else.” Cartman squeezes his pudge into the booth I was sitting comfortably at. The whole thing sags with his enormous weight. “I need to talk to the Jew.”

Annoyed, Stan replies, “Dude, I’m not going anywhere. We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

“You fags are always in the middle of a conversation. I actually have something important to say.”

“And that is?”

“Not for hippie ears. I know your kind, Marsh. I don’t need you to eco-terrorize my future.”

Stan stares at him, cobalt eyes narrowed. “Cartman. Do you ever listen to yourself talk?”

“Tch, why should I? Now go, shoo, shoo,” Cartman starts making the same noises at Stan that he made at Mr. Kitty when he was nine years old. “Go occupy Kinneh. I left him in the car.”

“The car? It’s like, ninety five degrees outside, douche. Did you at least crack a window?” I demand, outraged. Less at Cartman for leaving the jackass in there, and more at Kenny for allowing himself to be locked into a four door sedan like he’s a teacup dog. For someone who does everything with a ridiculous amount of zest, the guy is abnormally unattached to _living_.

“He’ll be fine. But don’t get too close, Stan. You might get the poor people hiv.”

“Hiv?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, you know, the H-I-V.”

“I know what you meant.” I poke his flab, pushing my finger in until I feel bone. Or that’s the idea. I never quite reach his ribs. “Sometimes I’m just astounded by the things that come out of your mouth.”

Stan snorts.

“As you should be,” Cartman simpers, crossing his arms. He doesn’t even seem to notice that his fat is actually eating my finger. I yank it back before I lose the thing completely. “I’m a genius.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m going to go make sure Kenny hasn’t asphyxiated,” Stan announces. Under his breath he adds, “Even if he probably deserves it.”

“ _Stan_.”

“Kyle.” Stan grins at me, shoving a hand through his thick, dark hair, and okay. Not fair. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he has a face.

Speaking of faces, something must be showing on mine. Cartman starts singsonging, “Aw, you _fags_. Kahl, stop being such a teenage girl.”

Ugh, he only calls me that when he wants to be obnoxious.

“I do look better in a pair of skinny jeans than you,” I agree, not even bothering to rise to the bait. It’s not like Cartman actually knows anything. He makes wild accusations all the time, and a bad reaction is pretty much an admission that he’s hit the right mark. I’m not even close to being solid enough about my sexuality to let Cartman know and start poking sticks at it.

“That was one time, Kyle, goddamnit.”

“I’m not judging. Except I mostly am.”

“Your harassment is uncalled for. God, Kahl. Just because your great grandparents had a shower mishap in the 1940s-“

“A what? Did you just equate the Holocaust with dropping the fucking soap?”

Stan tries to look very hard like he’s mustering up some of surprise. He’s a terrible actor, which he knows. That’s probably why he squeaks, “Kenny,” and bolts from the café.

Judas.

“Save your righteous indignation, Kyle. I have a business proposition for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Get that greedy gleam out of your eye, man, your heritage is showing.” I level Cartman with a look somewhere between bored and pissed. Cartman responds in kind. “Invest in my lawn management business.”

“Invest in your what?”

“Lawn management.”

“You manage shrubs?”

“ _I_ don’t manage anything,” Cartman retorts. “That’s what Mexicans are for.”

Of course.

“Dude, I don’t have any money to invest in anything.”

“You have a job, don’t you?”

“I have an internship with Stan’s dad. He thinks a stick of gum qualifies as a paycheck.”

“Then break out that bag of Jew gold you keep hidden. Support the cause!”

“Cartman,” I say patiently. “I don’t have a bag of gold. It burned, remember?”

“You think I don’t know you’ve stocked up again. Time has passed, Kahl. Time heals all wounds. Gold accumulates, time after time. We will have the time of our lives…when you hand over the gold. There is no time like the-“

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not giving you any cash.”

“I’d call you Scrooge, but that would be an insult to God-loving Christians everywhere, you fucking Jew.” Cartman’s face scrunches up, pig eyes and red cheeks and a mean expression. “I thought I could count on you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Reluctantly, I admit, “Sort of.”

“Think of the Mexicans, Kyle. The poor, poor Mexicans. All their friends are across the border, just waiting to work on our lawns, and-“

“Wait, you want money so you can smuggle Mexicans over the border?”

“Smuggle is such an ugly word, Kyle. I am a patriot. Patriots don’t smuggle. Patriots invite slav- I mean Mexicans into their country with open arms, because that is the freedom that America and God gave us. This is my lifelong dream, Kyle. Support my dreams!”

“Oh yeah? I didn’t realize incarceration was a longtime dream of yours.” I am giving Cartman my most dubious look right now. Cartman is completely unmoved by it; he’s obviously waiting for the grand intent of his announcement to sink in.

He’s going to have to wait a long time.

A thud at the end of the table draws our attention, and there’s Kenny, slightly sweat and disheveled, but not dead from heat stroke, so I count it as a win.

“I got hot,” Kenny complains.

Cartman scowls. “Kenny, spare me your faggy little redneck woes. Shouldn’t you be busy snorting crack off your mom’s cleavage or something?”

“I’ve got a date with your mom’s tits at eight, man. Just give me time.” Kenny squishes into the booth next to me and Stan just stands there, glaring.

“I tell you to do one thing. One thing! _Stay in the car_. Do you listen?” Cartman demands, with accompanying hand gestures that nearly send my soda flying off the table. “No. Just bend me over right here in the middle of the road, Kenny. Show the whole world how you like to fuck me with your poor, syphilis infested cock.”

“You’re overreacting, fat boy.”

“Really, Kenny? You think so? Because my ass aches from how hard you’re fucking me right now.” Cartman slams both hands on the table and announces, “Screw you guys. I’m going home.”

We watch him leave without an ounce of pity or regret. Cartman will forever be in his formative years, and he will never, ever outgrow tantrums. I turn to Kenny and Stan and say, “Guys, I can’t figure out if Cartman just asked me to invest in a legitimate business or if he’s trying to get me to fund an underground slave renaissance.”

“Knowing Cartman, it’s probably a little of both,” Kenny replies, chewing on Stan’s fries. “Nice hickey, Brof. Where’d you get that?” Kenny presses a finger to the side of my neck. I’m going to murder him. Stan turns completely red, but Kenny barrels on, “Did you meet some fine young thing at a bar? Without me? I am wounded. _Wounded_!”

I open my mouth to say something, but Kenny keeps going, “It’s okay. I understand what it’s like. Sow your wild oats, Kyle. Sow them far and free.” Kenny howls at the moon outside the glass window of the restaurant like the wild wolf he is. I sip my soda and grin.

Stan falls into the seat Cartman evacuated and sinks so far down I can barely see his face. I think that’s going to be the end of it, but then Kenny’s posture changes. He slings an arm around my shoulder, his expression turns sly, and before I even have a chance to think _fuck no_ , he’s saying, “Unless there weren’t any girls involved. Maybe you and Stan have got something going on the side?”

He knows full well what he’s doing. I told him all about Stan wanting to come out just shy of never, and I told him it in _confidence_. Kenny is such an ass.

“If that’s true, you better treat Kyle right, Stan. He’s a classy bitch. And such a romantic.” Kenny makes kissy faces at me. I shrug Kenny’s arm off of my shoulder.

The expression Stan turns on me is glacial. “You told him.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” I lie through my teeth, because okay, I’ve told Kenny a lot. “He’s like, one of those bomb squad dogs.”

Kenny grins and says, “‘Cept I can smell when people are macking it. And you two are definitely-“

“Sweet fucking god, Kenny. Announce it to the world why don’t you?” Stan hisses.

“Really? Okay.” He shrugs. “Hey, world. Stan and Kyle are banging each other like-mmph.” He finishes in the palm of my hand. And then he licks me. Gross.

“I can’t believe you told him,” Stan says. Kenny just smiles a self-satisfied smile.

And I’m just wondering if this means our date is over.

* * *

 

It’s not.

Over, that is. Stan brings me back to his apartment, although he doesn’t talk to me for most of the ride. Which is fine, I guess. I turn the radio up to one of those obnoxious Top 40s stations and sing along at the top of my lungs, trying desperately to act corny enough that Stan will just fucking smile. That’s all I need to know that we’re okay; just a hint of happiness.

I don’t get it. Not until we’re sitting on his couch and I’m doing everything in my power to get Stan to chill the fuck out. I nudge up against his neck, mouthing soft, nipping at the shell of his ear. And then I move down. I suck his fingers into my mouth, licking at each digit in turn, and then I kiss from his shoulders to the crook of his elbow. Stan finally starts to squirm, finally says. “Dude, I’m not a girl. I don’t need foreplay.”

I try to snap his jeans against his waist. I don’t really succeed. “Just relax and let me do all the work.”

“My grandma works faster.”

“You think about your grandma when we’re having sex?”

“Speaking of,” Stan mumbles, which is pretty much the worst segue in the entire world, because I really am not in the mood to speak of his _grandma_. “Hey, um. You’re not really okay with not telling anybody, are you?”

I settle back on my heels. “Seriously? You want to talk about this now? I am obviously doing something wrong.”

“No.” Stan smiles his crooked smile and says, “Trust me. You’re doing everything right.”

“Then what?” I’m hard up and frustrated as hell. I don’t mean for there to be an edge in my voice, but every time I try to access my upstairs brain it’s like big red letters flash behind my eyes: _access denied_. There are way bigger matters, weighing me down, literally. My dick is an insistent press against my jeans.

“Just. You told Kenny.”

“I didn’t,” I lie again. “But would it be so terrible? Could I, I don’t know, tell my parents?”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Stan stares at me like I just told him I think Cartman is a hot piece of ass.

“Um, because my mom keeps trying to set me up with a shiksa?” I incline my head to the side and say, “Which, I mean, might be fun if you’re interested in a threesome, but I’d rather not have to wine and dine some girl who’s under the impression that marriage is in the cards.”

“Is she cute?”

“Who?”

“The girl.”

I think about it. My mom’s been flashing pictures of this dark haired chick at me every time I turn around, like if she does it enough I’ll subliminally accept that she’s the person I want to bang for the rest of my life. “She’s not bad looking.” I shrug. “But I don’t really want into her pants. I want into your pants.” I tug at his belt, licking my lips.

He frowns at me, swatting my hand away, and now I’m getting annoyed.

“I am a twenty three year old man with needs,” I tell him, “It is my prerogative to demand sex from my boyfriend whenever I want. Take off your goddamned jeans.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

I blink. “Are you serious? Is it your time of the month?”

“Jesus, Kyle. Fuck off.”

“Is this because I want to tell my parents how much I like your dick? Because I feel like you should take that as a compliment.”

“Your mom has the biggest mouth in town. I should take the fact that you want to out me to all of South Park as a compliment?”

“Dude. Don’t talk about my mom like that.”

“Like what? I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.”

“She’s not going to tell the neighbors about my sex life, alright?” I snap. I’m not horny anymore, just pissed off.

“When Cartman gave you AIDs, it was public knowledge by lunchtime. What makes you think this won’t be?”

“Even if it was, does it matter? Fuck, Stan. You’re gay. Deal with it.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do.”

I shove my hand through my hair and say, “Yeah, but I have every right not to put up with your shit. Again. I’m not going to be your big secret, alright?”

“Aw, c’mon Kyle. It’s not like that.”

“Good, so I’ll just let my mom know you like to take it up the ass, and-“

“That’s not funny,” Stan growls, pushing me.

“Yeah, I figured that out,” I tell him, and then I say, “Right. So I won’t tell her. I’ll just go on a date and fuck that girl’s brains out, and then I’ll, what, sneak home and cuddle with you?”

Stan looks away. “Don’t do that.”

“Then tell me what to do.” I heave myself onto the floor, just to get some distance from him. I scowl and say, “Because I’ve got nothing.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stan commands, sounding tired, “Isn’t it bad enough that you told Kenny?”

“I didn’t tell Kenny anything.” Lie. “Kenny actually has a brain, which he uses every once in a while.” Lie. “It’s not my fault you like to get rough.” That one’s not such a lie. I point to the bruises on my arm, the hickeys on my neck. Stan’s ears redden. “And you need to get over this thing with Kenny. Your jealousy is getting old, dude.”

“You have matching tattoos.”

“I was drunk!”

“Is that going to be your excuse for everything? I was drunk?”

“Everything? What are you even talking about? What have I done to make you stop trusting me?”

“No- that’s not-“ Stan pauses, looking uncertain. “I just, this is new to me, dude. I don’t know how to act now that we’re more than just friends.”

“And I do? This is new to me too, okay? But I l- I mean, we’re best friends. We’re always going to be best friends. We can’t forget the things that make u work great together, just because now we like to do- other stuff.”

“Other stuff? Jesus, you sound like a virgin.”

“Shut up.”

“Look. Let’s just…talk about this later. Come on. Let’s get back to the getting naked thing. The getting naked really slowly thing,” he tacks on with a small smile. Stan reaches out for me, but I dodge his fingers.

“You know what? Maybe I’m not in the mood anymore.”

I’m acting like a douchebag.

I don’t really care.


	19. You Tell Me That You Love Me But...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh. So I uploaded this entire fic, which hadn't been updated since 2012 yesterday for reasons. And to do that, I had to read it (so many discrepancies, oh god, so many). And then I was like BUT WAIT, I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. 
> 
> So somehow I churned this out. I supposedly originally intended this to be thirty chapters. That's so not going to happen. In fact, there's only going to be one more. That's a thing. It might not be as eloquent as I intended, originally, but. I'm not the same person I was when I started this fic. I don't feel the same about love as I did three years ago. So. Er. Yeah. It's going to have the same ending, just in a shortened manner. I hope it doesn't seem rushed though, because trust me, the years it took me to reach the conclusions I've reached about life definitely didn't feel rushed.

_You tell me that you love me but you never want to see me again._

_Swans by Unkle Bob_

* * *

 

“You really want to tell your mom?” Kenny makes a face.

“God. No. Nonono.” I wave my hands in the air for emphasis. My mother and my sex life ne’er should meet. Just. “This secret sex agents thing is getting old fast.”

“Then why did you push it?”

“You don’t think I should have?” I frown. “He was giving me so much shit about telling you about the both of us –“

“You didn’t tell me.” Kenny cocks his head to the side. “I guessed. Kind of. And then I s’pose you told me.” He reconsiders. “Stan should know you tell me everything anyway.”

“Yeah, let’s actually not mention that to him.”

Abruptly interested in a way too keen way, Kenny questions, “Why not?”

“Nevermind that,” I say hastily, thinking of all the times Stan’s freaked out over how close my friendship with Kenny has gotten. “You’re supposed to be giving me advice.”

“I am,” Kenny agrees. “And that I will. Look, man, what you do is your business and all, but don’t you think you’re being a little bit…cruel?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Stan’s clearly been thinking about this – you – for a while. But even the idea of you guys together is brand fucking new for you.”

“And?” I prompt, trying to figure out what he’s getting at.

“And maybe you should lay off pressuring him on something he’s probably thought through when you, you know, haven’t.”

“Oh, sage advice, McCormick. You’re saying I should just let him take the coward’s way out?”

“I’m saying that not everyone is as cool with their sexuality as you are, Kyle.”

“Stan went after me,” I point out.

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between kissing a guy and telling the entire frickin’ town that you kissed a guy.”

“He didn’t have a problem telling the whole damn town he was kissing Wendy.”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous. I’m just.” I struggle to figure out what exactly I am. Finally, I settle on, “It doesn’t seem all that fair that Stan’s made me come face to face with all this bullshit, but when he doesn’t want to deal, he’s allowed.”

“Hey, man. From where I’m standing, Stan’s been pretty upfront with you about how he feels and what he wants. Maybe you should talk to him about this, if that’s how you really… _urk_ …feel.”

I sigh, watching Kenny’s face take on a green tinge. “Talking about feelings is making you nauseous, isn’t it?”

“Only a whole hell of a lot.”

Whatever. It’s not like I’m especially happy pouring all my problems into Kenny’s lap either. I don’t get why Stan was so willing to let the whole damn town think Wendy was close to tucking his man-bits in her purse, but he won’t even consider holding hands with me in front of his parents. It doesn’t even matter, because it’s not like I want to hold hands in front of his parents; god, the ridicule from Randy alone would be ridiculous. But I still want him to be okay with doing it, all the same.

I’m a little fucked in the head.

“Let’s get you out of your head,” Kenny offers, flying the white flag of friendship or whatever. “Movie?”

“I can’t today, I’ve got work.”

“You always have work,” he whines. “I’m playing agony aunt for you like, twenty-four seven, and let me tell you, Brof, it’s starting to make me feel pretty damn neglected.”

The echo of Stan telling me I neglected him bounces back at me from every angle. What is it with me treating my friends like shit this summer?

I cock an eyebrow. “Are you really, or are you just saying that?”

“Hand to god, Kyle.” Kenny manages to look a bit embarrassed. “Ever since all this drama started, you and Stan have been pulling away. It’s like you have a super-secret, super gay clubhouse, and I’m not invited.”

Softening, I tell Kenny, “You’re always invited into my clubhouse, Ken.”

He shoves my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s not helping the super gay thing.”

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands, like, truce? “Movie?”

“Movie,” he confirms.

* * *

 

Midway through the movie, Kenny’s jonesing for a cigarette break and I’ve got to piss, so we sneak out the back doors to take an extended break. Between the explosions and the shitty dialogue, it’s not like we’re about to miss anything vital.

The summer sun is already sinking, and true to form, the evening is already growing bitterly cold. We’re the only place in the country that probably enjoys snow in mid-July. If I wasn’t so completely used to it, I’d be pissed. As it is, I wrap my arms around myself and tell Kenny to hurry the fuck up.

He gives me his best shit eating grin and tells me to hold on to my panties, because he’s an ass with a capital A. I watch him slow down, savoring the cigarette with succor for about half a minute before I snatch it from between his lips, finish thing off, and then throw it underfoot.

“Hey!” Kenny protests. “That was my last one.”

“I’ll buy you a whole new pack.”

“Shucks, honey. Forget Stan, I’ll come out to the whole damn town for you.”

“It’s ten bucks, Kenny. Not a Ferrari.”

“I can buy a cheap whore for ten bucks,” he cheers, following me back inside the warmth of the theater.

I push open the door to the bathroom and then stop in my tracks, because oh hell no. There’s a grunt, half-pained, half-pleasured, and my hand flies up to cover my eyes. “Don’t look Kenny.”

I can feel Kenny trying to strain around me to see, but he regrets it nearly immediately. “What the actual fuck, Cartman?!”

“Aye, no one invited you fags in here,” Fatboy’s voice barks back. I do not take my hand off my eyes, because I am not going to willingly expose myself to that visual ever, ever again.

Calmly, I say, “It’s a public restroom.”

“Nice observational powers, Jew.”

“It’s a public restroom, doucheface. Not your own personal jack off laboratory.”

I can practically hear his wheels turning, and please, Abraham, let his dick not still be in his hand. “I don’t see your point.”

“His point is put your damn pants back on, pervert!” Kenny’s breath is hot on my shoulder, his outrage clear. “Kids come to piss in here.”

Cartman audibly shrugs. “They’ve got to grow up sometime.”

“No, you do.” I stare into the lines of my palm, adding, “You can get arrested for that shit, dude.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No you – damnit, Kahl. My mom does it all the time.”

Kenny bursts into happy laughter. “Not the same thing, dude.”

Cartman starts arguing the point, and I shove past them both, relieving myself to the sound of their constant, familiar bickering. I think about what Stan said, about him wanting to grow up so that eventually, when I decide to move on, he’ll be able to keep up with me.

The thing is, that implies I’ll move on. That one day, I won’t have this. And maybe I can do without the sight of Eric Cartman’s naked, bulbous flesh ever gracing my retinas like, for all eternity, but the rest of it? The sound of Kenny’s delighted outrage, the thrown insults, the close-knit friendship?

How can I move on from all of that?

* * *

 

Pretty easily, I guess.

I stare at the letter in my lap; admittance to a fellowship program I don’t even remember applying to. I’ve spent too long trying to suppress the notion that summer’s end can and will come, and then I’ll have to like. Do something with my life. If anything, I think that’s part of why Stan’s be-a-grownup initiative freaked me out so much; if he grows up, that means I have to, eventually.

I’m not ready for eventually. It took me twenty-three years to figure out I didn’t mind dick. Evidently, I’ve got a lot of learning and growing to do before I can adult.

I don’t tell Stan that, obviously. I don’t tell him anything at all, when I meet him in North Park for dinner. He can tell I’m being quiet, but he doesn’t push for the reasons why. Stan’s pretty great like that.

The restaurant we’re at is casual, and Stan went with that theme, even though all he’s wearing is a trucker hat and jeans. It shouldn’t make him look as handsome as it does.

I’m not even discrete about admiring him. It’s hard to believe I went so long without ever thinking about touching him, kissing him, fucking him. I wonder how much of that was denial about who I am and what I want, and how much of it was simply fear – fear of ruining what Stan and I have always cradled between us, this unique brand of friendship that nobody else could touch.

We’re sharing a basket of fries, and he’s telling me this story from college about a girl he used to date. I’m laughing at all the right places, imagining Stan locked outside her dorm room in nothing but his underwear, but I guess there’s something discordant about the sound. Stan covers my hand with his and asks, “Are you alright?”

“’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno.” He peers up at me, those dark blue eyes of his bright in the shitty fluorescent light. “You’ve been quiet.”

Without meaning to, or even wanting to, I blurt out, “Stan, what are we?”

He’s taken aback. He has every right to be.

I forge on, “The path we took to get to where we are, this, it’s really weird, and I know you said you want to keep up with me, but that means…what, exactly? If I get a job somewhere outside of Colorado, are you going to follow me? Or do you want me to stay here? Are we even actually, I don’t know, dating?”

Dating. Moses. I can’t remember the last time I actually dated anyone. I can’t even remember the last time I wanted to. I’ve liked my life up until this summer. I’ve liked getting my dick wet when and wherever I can. Yet here I am, trying to define the relationship with Stan Marsh.

How did this even happen?

In my head, I start creating a pro-con list while Stan stares at me with something like trepidation.

Pro: I can start working off my student loans and pay my parents back for everything they’ve done.

Pro: I won’t have to depend on my parents anymore, even though I’m ninety nine percent sure that somehow I’ll manage to fuck it up and come back, hat in hand.

Pro: A constant influx of cash.

Con: The fellowship really is in DC. Ironic, right?

Con: The look on Stan’s face when I get my shit together and tell him. If I ever do that.

“I don’t know, Kyle. I mean, yeah. I guess I thought…we were?”

“Oh. Okay,” I say dumbly, not sure how I feel about the answer.

I’m dating Stan. My boyfriend is Stan.

I have a boyfriend, I think, and the thought isn’t as uplifting as it probably should be.

“Oh, okay,” he agrees. “Is that wrong?”

“Not wrong,” I say, scooping up a handful of fries and refusing to meet his eyes.

“You can tell me if it’s wrong.”

“I would tell you if it’s wrong. I’m intensely judgmental, you know that. It’s one of my more attractive traits.”

“You have a lot of attractive traits.” Great, now he’s trying to flirt with me. I feel something tight in my throat. Ignoring it, I grit my teeth and smile.

By the end of the night, all I’ve got to show for it are aching teeth, but what the hell. Stan looks happy enough. Or so I think.

We’re settling our check when he tells me, “You can always tell me, you know. When something is bothering you.”

“Who says anything is bothering me?’

Stan shrugs. “Maybe there’s not.”

He knows me better than that. I swallow down guilt and wonder why I can’t just up and tell him. We shared a long distance friendship for the past four years, and it didn’t even come close to tearing us apart. A yearlong job isn’t going to be a problem.

Not unless I make it one. Then it occurs to me:

Maybe I am the problem.

* * *

 

Here’s the thing. I’m barely twenty four, and I’ve been feeling old for while now. But really, twenty four is nothing. It’s like, just under a quarter of a century, and if I live to a hundred, I’ve got nearly three quarters left. Seventy six years.

Shit, that’s a lot of time.

Enough time to start all over, and maybe fuck things up again and again if I want to. There’s still so much _time_.

So what if Stan’s been a part of my life since before I can remember? I didn’t even know that we could be like we are, what we are, until this summer. Which means, I guess, that there a lot of changes ahead for us. It means that we have a few more obstacle courses to run.

Especially because it’s Stan. One second he wants to grow up and the next we’re owning at beer pong. I still can’t figure out which version is real – _will the real SBF please stand up_?

Maybe they both are real.

People have more than one side, I guess. Only I don’t like thinking that Stan might have sides I don’t know, haven’t discovered, and maybe never will.

I don’t like thinking that I could somehow fuck up; be pulled away by a pair of nice tits or a tight pussy.

I mean, that’s a very real possibility. All the things Stan said, about wanting to separate himself from my wanton frat-boy lifestyle; it wasn’t all about me. No matter what he said, he really is trying to make a name for himself, to be an adult. He’s got his nice apartment in North Park, and soon he’ll have a steady job, and. And it’s like he said. He’s ready to settle down with a white picket fence, a dog, and two kids.

I’m not.

That’s what I’m thinking, when he takes me back to his place. It’s what I’m thinking when he huddles me up against the wall in his nice, pristine apartment, asking, “Are you still mad at me? About not wanting to come out?”

“No,” I lie, even though the answer is absolutely. I don’t even know why; it’s not like I was too keen on this gay thing to start with. I just. I’ve always been honest about who I am, whether I’m being a big ol’ bag of dicks or the smartest kid in town.

I don’t see why my realization that my sexuality is more fluid than I’d initially thought is any different. I don’t see why, if Stan is so into me, he doesn’t want to shout it at the top of the hills.

“You’re lying,” he observes, fitting his hips against mine.

I take a sharp breath, the hard lines of his body suddenly more interesting than any of the awful, awful naysaying thoughts in my head. I let him press his mouth against mine, urgent and soft, and I try to remember how hard I fought to be in this place with him. How desperate I was for him not to ignore me anymore.

I did and he’s not, and somehow, I’m still not happy.

What I am is fucking hard. So I shove all the bullshit thoughts away and wrap my fingers around Stan’s hips, pulling him closer, tighter, looking for friction.

“Kyle,” he groans, and yeah, that’s good, but it could be better. I fumble his shirt over his head, and he yanks mine over my mass of red curls. Then our lips are crashing together once more, and it’s good, dirty, slick. I paw at Stan’s ass, and he fumbles with my belt buckle, the two of us walking back towards his couch. When we land on it, safely intertwined, Stan bucks up against me, our cocks lining up in exactly the right way.

I work his zipper down, slipping my fingers under his boxers until he’s free, a solid weight in my hand. He does the same for me, lust sparking in his eyes.

“Kyle,” he says again, his free hand finding my jaw, his lips following his fingertips.

It’s too gentle, too sweet, when what I want is raw and rough and punishing. I speed my pace over his dick, urging him to do the same, until we’re both taking gasping breaths against each other, our skin damp with sweat.

“Stan,” I say, telling him, prompting him, trying to get him to understand that this isn’t permanent, that this won’t be forever, that I don’t know what I’m doing, or how, or why.

But all he really gets out of it is that I’m about to come. He says, “Me too,” and then my hand is sticky and wet, and I’m following right after him.

I slump my head against his collarbone and wish that I was better. Stronger.

Breathlessly I ask him, “This dating thing. I’m still figuring it out. You know that, right?”

He says, “I know. I know that, man.” For a second, he watches me with such complete adoration and love that I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Then he asks abruptly, “What are you going to do, come September?”

It sounds like, ‘what are _we_ going to do’.

“I don’t know,” I lie. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” he echoes, lowering his eyes.

It’s how I know he’s lying too.

We link our hands together, the distance between us growing, chasm-like, despite the way our bodies touch. I know I can say the word and cross it; hell, I know that’s what I can and should fight for.

Only, if I say something, if I tell him about the fellowship for real, it will change things. It will force me to do exactly what Stan’s been striving for – to grow up.

I just don’t think I’m ready for that.


End file.
